Such Is Death (13 page)

“You came here that evening?”

“Yes. We dropped in. We do most evenings. There's not much to do where we're staying.”

“Did you see the man who was afterwards murdered?”

“Not to take any special notice of. When it all came
out afterwards we knew it must have been him with those staring eyes, but not at the time.”

“He didn't speak to you?”

“No. I don't think he spoke to anyone except Doris. Not while we were here, anyway.”

“You had never seen him before?”

“Not that we were aware of. You never know with people, do you?”

“Yes,” said Carolus. “He was apparently a striking-looking man.”

“I daresay. We didn't notice.”

“You usually stay until closing time?”

“Very often we do.”

“But that night you left a few minutes after half past nine.”

This brought a flow of alternating explanations from Mr and Mrs Bullamy.

“To tell you the truth we're not over-fond of that Vivienne,” said Mrs Bullamy in a low voice. “She thinks too much of herself. We got quite sick of it that evening.”

“It was stifling hot in here,” said Mr Bullamy. “We felt like a blow before we went back for the night.”

“They don't like us out late, where we're staying. It means them stopping up, you see, and they're early birds.”

“I think I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me that evening. I was feeling a bit off from the time we came in here.”

“You don't want always to stop to the very last minute, do you? It looks so bad.”

“This place was crowded that evening. There was nowhere to sit down. My corns were giving me a bad time, too.”

“You hadn't noticed this man leave the bar?” asked Carolus.

“No. We weren't paying any attention to him, really.”

“Thank you for telling me all you have,” said Carolus,
as though they had made important revelations. “By the way, where do you normally live, Mr Bullamy?”

This caused an awkward check in the flow of confidences.

“I've not long retired,” said Mr Bullamy.

“We don't really live anywhere,” explained his wife.

“We're waiting to find somewhere to settle down, really.”

“We're thinking of staying here.”

“But where did you live when you were working?”

“Well, I was born in Croydon,” said Mrs Bullamy quickly.

“I'm a Cheshire man,” added Mr Bullamy. “You worked in London, perhaps?”

“I did for a long time, yes. I lived Brixton way then.”

“Some time ago?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Where have you been living since? “persisted Carolus, trying to sound chatty.

“I don't quite see what it's got to do with it. We were in Brighton before coming here.”

Carolus brought things to a head sharply.

“You were in Australia, I think?”

There was a long and difficult silence, after which Mr Bullamy said—”Whoever told you that?”

Carolus followed his successful attack.

“Did you know Ernest Rafter out there?”

The Bullamys had better defences now. Mr Bullamy smiled broadly.

“Always the same,” he said. “You people in England talk of Australia as though it was a small town in which everyone knew everyone else. It's a continent, really.”

“There are nine million people in Australia,” said Mrs Bullamy.

“Did you happen to know this man?”

“Not that we know of,” said Mr Bullamy.

“He used a different name, we've been told, so how are we to know?”

“It would be too much of a coincidence, wouldn't it?” suggested Mr Bullamy.

“No,” said Carolus and without referring to the matter again took their glasses to the counter to be refilled.

“There!” said Doris confidentially leaning close. “Whatever have you said to them? They look as though they'd seen a ghost!”

“Perhaps they have,” replied Carolus.

T
HAT
evening Carolus decided to retrace the footsteps of the murdered man as far as he could from the time of his arrival in Selby. He had not done such a thing in any previous case but he was so much at a loss here that he clutched at anything which might stir his imagination. His previous visit to the shelter had been made soon after his arrival, this would be made at the same time as Ernest Rafter's. Indeed this afternoon and evening he would try to see and hear things as the murdered man had done.

Reaching the station at half past five Carolus waited till the 4.15 from London got in on time at 5.40 and joined the passengers from it as they came out of the station. Most of them went to the car park, the taxi rank or the bus stop and he found himself almost alone in the rather gloomy road which led to the Queen Victoria.

But he met one pedestrian who came towards him from the direction of the hotel with a Boxer dog.

“Good evening, Mr Deene,” said Emma Rafter.

“Good evening. Having an evening stroll?” suggested Carolus chattily.

To his surprise she stopped. She seemed to think it necessary to explain her presence.

“I live just up there,” she said. “A small flat in the
block at the top of the road. I'm going to get my evening paper.”

“From our friend Mr Lobbin?”

“From his shop. Yes.”

“Perhaps I shall see you later? We might have a drink if you're coming to the Queen Victoria.”

“I daresay I shall—for a few minutes.”

It was just five to six when Carolus entered the hotel and noticed Doris on her way to open the bar. In the office was Mr Rugley the proprietor, a pleasant elderly man with whom Carolus had chatted on several occasions.

“I didn't know you'd come here to make enquiries about the murder,” he said to Carolus, not severely, but with just a suggestion of reproach.

“Yes. Curiosity as much as anything, I'm afraid.”

“Finding out all you want?”

“No. Very little. It's a tough case. By the way, did Rafter book in under his own name?”

“Yes. I didn't even notice it at the time. You don't, you know, and it wasn't very clear writing.”

“Could I see the entry?”

“The police took my book the very next day. I've had to get a new one. The whole thing's been a nuisance, Mr Deene. I wish I'd never let him a room.”

“Did he have much luggage?”

“No. Only a little case. The police took that as well. He didn't pay for his room, of course, and when she heard about it Miss Rafter wanted to pay but I said no. It was no responsibility of hers.”

“Was there anyone staying in the hotel at the time?”

“No visitors. Just the wife and I and George the porter. He's been with us a good many years.”

“Rafter said nothing to you except that he wanted a room?'

“No. Just the usual things. He thought he'd be staying about a week.”

“Then he went up to his room?”

“For about half an hour. I saw him come down and make straight for the bar. Then I went to our sitting
room to watch the television. I never saw him again, though the girls in the bar did of course.”

“And George.”

“I believe George did see him for a minute in the hall. He comes on at seven, so you can ask him.”

“Thanks, Mr Rugley.”

“That's all right. I hope you find out who did it. It doesn't look as though the police will. They've been on it all these weeks. Only I didn't know you were here to investigate.”

Carolus went up to his room, the room to which Rafter had gone at the same time. He had half an hour to pass and wondered what his predecessor had done in that interval. A wash, perhaps, a moment's unpacking of his single case, then what? He drank heavily when he reached the bar so what can have kept him from it here? There was no telephone and the only heat came from a shilling-in-the-slot electric stove. Was he writing a letter, perhaps? Entering up a diary? Going over notes or instructions? Or just looking at the evening paper? It seemed unlikely to Carolus that he would ever know.

At half past six he went down to the bar and since Doris was occupied in a whispered conversation with Mr Lobbin was served by Vivienne. He took his whisky and stood near the door to notice later that he was being discussed by the two behind the bar—or rather, discussed by Doris and disdainfully scrutinized by Vivienne.

Presently he crossed to them and asked for the telephone.

“There!” said Doris. “You gave me quite a start. That's just how he came up and asked for it on The Night. I told him to go into the hall and phone.”

“Is that all you said?”

“No. Now I come to think of it I asked him if it was a local call he wanted to make, because he might need the change for the box. I'd quite forgotten about that till now.”

“What did he say?”

“He seemed to think for a minute then said it was. I
told him I could give him the coppers but he took no notice and went straight into the hall.”

“How long was he out of the room?”

“I couldn't say, really. It was while he was out Miss Rafter came in. But George may know. He was in the hall at the time.”

“I'll ask him,” said Carolus, glad of an excuse to follow Rafter's movements without making it obvious that he was doing so.

But he had a surprise. As he entered the hall from the bar he nearly collided with Emma Rafter.

“Always come in this way,” she explained, and might have added, Carolus thought, that this discreet route to the bar was followed in deference to her sister's gentility.

George was foxy and fiftyish, a leathery old type in the ostler tradition. He said “Evening, sir,” to Carolus and only just failed to touch a forelock.

“I wanted to ask you one or two things about the night on which Rafter was murdered,” said Carolus and noticed that George nodded with understanding, evidently prepared for this. “You were here in the hall when he came from the bar to telephone?”

“Yes, sir. I was.”

“Was anyone else?”

“How d'you mean?”

“In the hall, I mean. Did he happen to meet anyone but you?”

George looked dull and crafty.

“Not that I noticed,” he said.

“And you
would
have noticed if he had?”

“I daresay I should.”

“He didn't, for instance, meet Miss Rafter, as I did just now?”

George became emphatic.

“No, certainly not, he didn't. I'm quite sure of that. No, he never met Miss Rafter. That I could swear to.”

“Did she come through this way that evening?”

“If she did I never noticed it.”

This could be the truth, thought Carolus, or the result of a small bribe.

“Rafter asked for the telephone box?”

“Yes, and I showed him.”

“He telephoned?”

“That I can't say. He went into the box and was there some time. But it's sound-proof and I couldn't tell if he got through.”

“He was some time in there?”

“Seemed like it. I didn't notice particularly.”

“Did you know his name at the time?”

“No. No one did, that I know of. You couldn't read much of his signature. It looked like Rapper to me when I just looked at it. Later on Doris asked me to look at the name and I saw it was Ernest Rafter.”

“Did that mean anything to you?”

“Not at the time it didn't.”

“Thank you, George.” Carolus tipped him. “If you happen to remember anything you might let me know.”

“I will, sir. Certainly sir.”

Carolus went into the phone box and examined the local directory. There were five entries under ‘Rafter', two for Emma, her flat and her stables out at Puckshott, two for Locksley, his home at Bawdon and the office of Rafter and Mohawk, Solicitors, at Bawdon, and one for Bertrand, his house in Selby. Under Dalbinney was ‘Mrs Isobel de L'Epee Dalbinney'. It seemed unlikely that if Rafter had wished to speak with one of his relatives that evening he had not been able to do so.

It was just 7.15 when Carolus returned to the bar and found Emma Rafter on the point of leaving. He tried to delay her but she seemed in a hurry now. He wondered if she was going to the pictures with Isobel but made no enquiry.

He now had to pass the long period during which Rafter had been knocking back a series of double Scotches and he realized that this would be nearly two hours. So far as he knew the only person with whom Rafter had
talked during that time was Doris, but several others had been present, including Lobbin, Stringer and the Bullamys. Lobbin was here now and Carolus thought that more than once the newsagent eyed him curiously and remembered that he ‘could scarcely take his eyes off' Rafter.

Presently he noticed that Lobbin left the bar without saying good-night to anyone. Carolus had the impression that this was neither a final departure nor a moment's absence. He approached the end of the counter at which Doris was standing and leaned towards her, a signal to which Doris responded so heartily that their heads almost touched.

“You remember the night of the murder?” asked Carolus unnecessarily.

“Shall I ever forget it?” whispered Doris, wide-eyed.

“Do you remember whether Mr Lobbin stayed in the bar continuously that night? Or whether he went out at all?”

“Well, I never thought to mention it when the police were on to me, but I know he did slip home for a minute some time in the evening because when he came back he told me about it. He was worried about Her, you see, and went round to see what was happening, but she went for him like a vixen. Hammer and tongs it was again till he had to leave her and come back here for peace and quiet.”

“Thank you,” said Carolus. “Who is the man who has just come in?”

“That's Mr Stringer,” said Doris, then, drawing herself up, dismissed Carolus with a loud “It only shows, doesn't it?” before turning to greet the newcomer and pour out a light ale for him.