Such Is Death (15 page)

“Yes, yes. It must have been quite a wrench for you to come here.”

“I had been here for my summer holidays for thirty-five years,” explained Mr Biggett, “so when I retired I naturally decided to live here.”

“Of course. And you started your nightly stroll?”

“Oh no. I started that when I first came here on holiday after the First World War. At one time they extended the promenade, which changed things a little, but when I retired here my walk was taken all the year round instead of only during my summer holidays.”

“I see. Did you see Ernest Rafter that night?”

Mr Biggett's soft voice never changed its mild tone.

“Not that night,” he said. “I had seen him in the afternoon.”

“What?”

“I travelled down with him on the 4.15. I had been to London to settle up some business and we travelled down together. Third class.”

“How did you know it was Ernest Rafter?”

“He told me. We were alone in the compartment. He explained to me that he had been presumed dead and was now going to establish his right to his share of his father's money. He mentioned his two brothers and two sisters. They were, he said, somewhat parsimonious. He intended to get in touch with them at once.”

Carolus, if not ‘aghast', was greatly surprised at this gently spoken confidence.

“Where did you leave him?”

“At the station. I recommended him to the Queen Victoria Hotel.”

“Did you see him pay for anything?”

“No. There was no occasion.”

“You didn't see his pocket case or anything like that?”

“No,” said Mr Biggett.

“Did you see him again?”

“Not alive. I saw only his huddled-up figure when he was dead, the policeman standing in the way. I did not know till the next day that it was the man with whom I travelled.”

“Did you see anyone else on the promenade that evening?”

“I never see people when I'm walking, or not in the sense you mean. I walk, occasionally stopping to look at the sea.”

“The policeman asked you to telephone the station?”

“He did. I complied, then came straight home.”

“And that is all you know?”

“Certainly. I am not inquisitive. I am too occupied for that.”

“Occupied?”

“My journal.”

“This interview must be quite an interruption for you?”

“It has certainly disturbed my routine. I do not rise till 11.30. That is since retiring, of course. Previously I rose at seven-forty-five- I remain indoors till ten o'clock in the evening then take my walk. I go to bed at twelve-fifteen, read till one-fifteen, then sleep till eight o'clock.”

“Suppose you are awakened?”

“I am not. For thirty-three …”

“Most interesting. Is there a coal-hammer in this house?”

“Certainly.”

“You have seen it?”

“I have used it. In the coal-shed. It is still there. Did you suppose …”

“Mr Biggett, I have to ask that question of everyone connected with the case.”

“But how am I connected with it?”

“You met Rafter that afternoon and received some confidences from him. You were on the promenade at the time of his murder.”

“I do not see that either connects me. If a man cannot take a walk by the sea in the evening, what are we coming to?”

“Bedlam,” said Carolus.

“Surely you would be well advised to search among those who had some motive for murdering Rafter, instead of coming to me.”

“I don't know who may have had a motive.”

“Then I suggest you find out. I have read every important murder case for the past forty years and I have never found one in which the murderer was not discovered through motive.”

Carolus rose to go.

“I advise you to give your information to the police,” he said stiffly, before leaving the house.

He phoned Mrs Dalbinney's flat at lunch time but there was no reply. It was not until the evening that his call was answered and then by the voice of a young man.

“Mrs Dalbinney?”

“Out,” said the voice.

“Are you expecting her? This is Carolus Deene.”

“Oh, Carolus. Do you remember me at Newminster? I'm Paul Dalbinney.”

“I seem to recall a rather impudent boy in Holling-bourne's house.”

“That sounds like me. What can I do for you?”

“I'd like to have what Mr Gorringer would call a Word with you.”

“So would I. With you, I mean. Where are you staying? The Hydro?”

“No. The Queen Victoria.”

“Ah yes. That's where this type stayed who is supposed to be my uncle. I see why you've chosen it. Shall I run round?”

“Later,” said Carolus.

“What time?”

“Not before nine-thirty, if you don't mind.”

“I'll be there.”

Carolus went into the bar.

“You know what?” said Doris. “It's Christmas in three days' time and we haven't got a bit of holly up yet. I told Mr Rugley tonight and George is going to see to it tomorrow. How are you getting on with your old murder? Caught anyone yet? Vivienne says you never will, don't you, Vivienne?”

“Mmmm,” assented Vivienne.

“She may well be right.”

At nine-thirty almost to the moment Paul walked into the bar. He was a handsome youth with a lot of yellow hair and a healthy complexion.

“Hullo, Carolus,” he said exuberantly. “This is something, isn't it? I never thought when you were boring me with history that you would be investigating the murder of my uncle. How does it go?”

“Slowly,” said Carolus. “Where were you that night?”

“Oh round and about. I don't remember exactly.”

“On the promenade at all?”

“I expect so. I saw this character, anyway. At least I suppose it was the one. I noticed these staring eyes they all talk about.”

“Where was this?”

“I can't for the life of me remember. I just saw that face somewhere. But I don't see it can be much help to you. I didn't cosh him with a coal-hammer, you know. Though I might have if I'd known who it was. And if I'd had a coal-hammer, of course.”

“You're very vague about your movements. Surely on the following day when you heard there had been a murder you must have recalled them carefully?”

“Not really. I'd had a couple of pints that night. But can you imagine the effect of the whole thing on the family? It kills me to hear them.”

“Does it?”

“There's mother practically calling it a blot on the escutcheon. Aunt Emma feels it, quite sincerely, though. And in a different way so does Uncle Bertrand. It's startled the old boy out of his wits, I think. He lives very quietly with this young woman of his and doesn't want to be disturbed by his long-lost brother turning up and getting himself coshed.”

“What about Locksley Rafter?”

“Oh he's a stick. Wait till you meet him. You never know what he's thinking. Stiff as a ramrod and never speaks if he can help it. I quite like the old boy but he used to scare me. You can imagine that this has been a blow to him, with a solicitor's practice in the district. It has to all of them, but I think Uncle Locksley is the most put out. Of course they're all as mean as sin. In their different ways. Mother's money-mean. Uncle Bertrand is generous in big things and mean in little ones …”

“You have all been questioned by the police?”

“Yes. That was a laugh, really. I honestly think they look on us as suspects.”

“They do,” said Carolus. “After all you are the only people known to have any reason to wish Ernest Rafter out of the way.”

Paul laughed.

“But it's silly, Carolus. How were we to know some character who turned up in the town was Ernest? We didn't even know the sod was alive. And even if we had,
can
you imagine any of us banging him on the head? It's too far-fetched.”

Carolus looked at his watch.

“Let's take a stroll,” he said.

Paul followed him willingly enough.

“To the promenade? “he suggested.

“Why not? “agreed Carolus.

With any luck they would find Sitwell, he was thinking, and Sitwell might recognize Paul as the young man he had seen on the promenade on the night of the murder. Carolus resented the necessity for this when John Moore could tell him in a word whether or not Paul had been recognized, but his understanding with Moore was a firm one and he would not abuse it for the sake of a question so easily answered.

Sure enough Sitwell hove, as they say, into sight.

“Good-evening,” said Carolus when they were level.

Sitwell's eyes were fixed on Paul.

“I've seen you before,” he said wonderingly.

“Congratulations,” said Paul cheekily. “Who is this character, Carolus?”

“You were down here on the night of the murder.”

“Yes. Windy, wasn't it?”

“Have you been asked for a statement?”

“Of course. I made a beauty.”

“But not,” said Carolus coldly, “on the grounds that you were here on the promenade that night. You made it as one of the family.”

“Was that it? These subtle distinctions between suspects are beyond me.”

“They're not subtle. And in your case they are not distinctions. You are in both categories of suspect, that of people with a motive and that of being in the vicinity of the crime.”

Paul whistled.

“I've practically got a noose round my neck, haven't I?”

“If you haven't told Detective Inspector Moore where you were that evening,” said Sitwell ponderously, “I shall have to ask you to do so.”

“That's all right,” said Paul. “I rather like making statements. When do you suggest?”

“Mr Moore is in his office now.”

“You mean …”

“Why not?” said Carolus. “Get it over.”

“It's late,” said Paul.

“Not very. It won't take long,” Carolus reassured him.

“But what have I got to tell him?”

“That I don't know,” said Carolus. “I expect he'll ask you among other things whom you met that evening.”

“How on earth should I know? Really, what bores you all are with your eternal questions! I want to get to bed. However, I'll come quietly. I believe you let me in for this on purpose, Carolus.”

“It's nothing to do with this gentleman,” said Sitwell huffily. “It was I who recognized you. Please remember that.”

Carolus watched while the two walked away side by side. He was about to follow when he saw a small round figure approaching at a brisk pace.

“Evening, Mr Biggett,” he said.

Mr Biggett eyed him. In that uncertain light Carolus could not be sure but it seemed to him—perhaps it was his imagination—that there was a hint of triumph in the eyes visible between hat and scarf.

“Flwbble,” replied Mr Biggett.

Nothing could be gathered from that.

C
AROLUS
realized rather wearily next morning that he must be conscientious and see the remaining two members
of the family, Bertrand and Locksley Rafter, but he had a strong feeling that he was wasting his time in interviewing these people whose only known connection with the crime was something that was vaguely thought of as a motive, simply because no better motive had appeared.

That remained the crucial question—who in the world so much wanted this man's death that he was prepared to lure him to that lonely shelter and murder him in a brutal manner? It was, as Paul had said, frankly farfetched to suppose that any member of this highly respectable family cared so much whether or not Ernest reappeared that he or she would carry out a scheme of this kind, even if he knew of the man's survival and arrival in Selby. But it was equally far-fetched, on the known facts, that anyone else would.

‘I'll get it over', he thought and made for Bertrand's house in Marine Square.

This was quite a sizeable Victorian house looking towards the sea, though some two hundred yards back from the promenade. All the houses in Marine Square were solid stucco erections with heavy metal balconies before their first-floor windows.

The interior was of a kind he knew well, the retired army officer's home, rich with the spoils of war and peace in the East. Magnificent rugs and elaborately beaten Indian silver, a profusion of teak and ivory, a scent of sandalwood and cigars, the atmosphere was rich and unmistakable.

But Bertrand Rafter when he appeared was not the typical retired officer. He was neat and clean-shaven, young-looking for fifty, with a pleasant friendly voice and manner. Carolus was at once at ease.

“Yes, I heard my sister had persuaded you to come over,” said Bertrand. “I think it's very good of you. I hope the puzzle comes up to expectations?”

“It does.”

“I feel we ought to be helpful but it's not easy. We lead pretty uneventful lives. Do you know all our movements at the time?”

“I don't know yours.”

“If I've got the time right, I was in bed. I turned in at ten. My secretary, Molly French, lives here normally but she was in town that night so I was in the house alone from tea-time onwards. Fortunately I did not go out at all that evening. But I suppose that even the police could scarcely want alibis from us, so perhaps it doesn't matter that I have no witness to my early retirement.”

“I don't know,” said Carolus. “You see the wretched part of this case is that you and your family are the only people who have anything worth calling a motive.”

“I know. It's absurd, but we can't get away from it. What makes it so fantastic is that obviously a murder would do more than anything to give publicity to Ernest's identity, as indeed it has done. ‘Murdered man a Jap collaborator', and so on. It was the very last thing any of us would have wanted. The money could have been arranged easily enough.”