Charters and Caldicott (16 page)

Caldicott turned to her eagerly. ‘You don't want your chocolate chip? Why not swop it for my raspberry ripple?'

‘My appetite for playing Sherlock Holmes, fool! But I do wish we'd cracked that Mix Well and Serve conundrum.'

‘I shall one day, given peace of mind to concentrate,' said Charters. ‘I'm convinced Jock Beevers wanted to tell us something or lead us somewhere. Is there anything wrong with that raspberry ripple, old chap?'

Caldicott glared at him. ‘I'm sure it's an excellent raspberry ripple, old chap, but I asked for a strawberry ripple.'

‘You asked for a raspberry ripple.'

‘I hate raspberries. I've always hated raspberries, as you know.'

The lights dimmed and the music began but Charters ignored these signs that the film was about to start. ‘I
do
know. That's why I was quite surprised when you asked for a raspberry ripple.'

‘Strawberry ripple.'

‘Raspberry ripple.'

A voice from a couple of rows away urged them to shut up. ‘You must have misheard, old boy,' said Caldicott, ignoring this interruption.

‘My hearing's perfect! You asked for a raspberry ripple!'

Other people began to glare and mutter. ‘The natives are getting restless,' said Margaret. The pair piped down. Charters fumed and scooped up his ice-cream, Caldicott sulkily dabbed at his ripple with the spoon and Margaret smiled to herself.

The credit titles for the old black and white movie appeared on the screen. When the copyright date in roman numerals came up Charters remembered another grievance. ‘That's something else I'm not mistaken about, Caldicott. This film was made in 1959.'

‘How do you claim to know that?'

‘It was there in black and white, man. “Copyright 1959.”'

A young couple further along their row invited them to keep their voices down. ‘
You
say it was 1959, old man. To me it was just MX something or other – like myxomatosis,' said Caldicott.

The young man hissed even more angrily at them. Charters gave him an apologetic grimace, lowered his voice slightly and went on, ‘No, no no. M – that's a thousand. CM – nine hundred. L – fifty. Then IX –
Good God!
I've licked it, Caldicott!' The entire audience turned to glare at him.

‘Your raspberry ripple?' said Caldicott acidly. ‘I told you it was foul.'

‘M-I-X, Caldicott! Mix Well and Serve! Come along! You too, Mrs Mottram.'

He stood up and pushed his way excitedly along the row, followed by a bewildered Margaret and Caldicott. Caldicott murmured ‘Excuse me,' to the furious couple as he climbed over them, then a kind thought struck him.

He turned back and gave the young woman his raspberry ripple.

The urgency and excitement of the situation seemed to warrant a taxi to Viceroy Mansions. They paid it off, hurried into the block and across the lobby. About to enter the lift, Caldicott glanced back thoughtfully to Grimes's desk, his recent talk with Snow coming back to him. ‘You two go up. I shan't be a tick,' he said, handing Charters his keys. He went back and peered over the counter, then banged the bell for attention. Grimes, who had been crouching out of sight since he'd seen the taxi unexpectedly unload Caldicott and his friends, rose obsequiously.

‘Oh, it's you, Mr Caldicott. Only I was just straightening out my shelves style of thing.'

‘I thought you couldn't bend, Grimes. On account of the slipped disc that compels you to take three afternoons a week off at your osteopath's.'

‘Been told to exercise it, sir. Only it seizes up otherwise. See, your spinal cord, Mr Caldicott, it's like kind of a set of interlocking...'

‘Never mind my spinal cord, Grimes. You've been blabbing to Inspector Snow, haven't you?'

‘Got interviewed again, was I not! He's a crafty devil, though, isn't he, Mr Caldicott? I mean, the way he wriggles things out of you – you don't know what you've said till you've said it style of thing. He's clever, he is!'

‘I hope at least you've now told the sordid truth about why you let the late Helen Appleyard into my flat.'

‘Oh, I have, sir.'

‘That it was nothing to do with incriminating letters and all to do with a dirty great fistful of fivers.'

‘I was tempted and I fell, I freely admit it.'

‘What did you do with that money, Grimes?'

‘Put it to a good use, sir. That's why I wanted it, why I was tempted. It's gone to pay for a week in Lourdes.'

Caldicott could hardly believe his ears. ‘Lourdes?'

‘Like a pilgrimage.'

‘For a slipped disc?'

‘Worth a try, Mr Caldicott. Faith can move mountains, so they say. So you never know, sir – that grubby £250 might do some good in the world after all.'

They had reached the nub of the matter. ‘Yes, but it
wasn't
£250, was it Grimes? You let that woman into my flat for a piddling £100!'

‘Is that what the inspector told you, sir?'

‘That's what the inspector told me, Grimes. So as your 250 quid trip to Lourdes turns out to be total fiction, I'll ask you again. What did you do with the money?'

Grimes thought fast. ‘Put it down as a deposit, sir. On a pilgrimage to Lourdes.'

‘Then it's in a good cause after all,' said Caldicott, heavily sarcastic.

‘Trouble is, though, if I don't come up with the other hundred and fifty before the end of the...'

‘Grimes!'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Are you about to ask me for £150?'

‘Only as a loan style of thing, Mr Caldicott. I mean to say, there's a lot has to be done round Viceroy Mansions, and I can't give complete satisfaction if I'm a martyr to a slipped disc, now can I?'

‘No, indeed, Grimes. What
would
give complete satisfaction is if you were a martyr to rigor mortis!' Caldicott stormed off to the lift, leaving Grimes looking deeply wounded.

Caldicott found Charters already examining the Mix Well and Serve letter through a magnifying glass while Margaret was fixing herself a drink. ‘Do you know what that cheeky blighter Grimes just had the nerve to...' Caldicott burst out as soon as he was inside the flat.

‘Never mind that, Caldicott,' said Charters. ‘Come over here. I've taken the liberty of unearthing your magnifying glass.'

‘And I've taken the liberty of unearthing your gin,' said Margaret.

‘Now then, look at that.'

‘Jock's letter? I know it by heart, old boy,' said Caldicott.

‘But do you? Look at it again.' Caldicott did as he was told. ‘Concentrate on the cryptic message, Mix Well and Serve. Now we've established what Mix indicates.'

Caldicott looked up, surprised. ‘Have we? When?'

‘In the cinema, Caldicott! Why do you suppose we came rushing out?'

Caldicott still looked baffled. ‘Think of a number,' said Margaret helpfully.

‘A number? Ah, myxomatosis. Those roman numerals.'

‘Exactly,' said Charters. ‘M-I-X. One thousand and nine.'

‘I say, that's clever. One thousand and nine! That's damned ingenious,' said Caldicott, profoundly impressed by this display of learning. ‘One thousand and nine what?'

‘That's what we're trying to work out, ducky,' said Margaret. ‘We've cracked the first word, now what about the second?'

Caldicott resumed his study of Jock's letter. “'Well”. Now, what's that in roman numerals?'

‘It isn't anything in Roman numerals, Caldicott, but it isn't “Well” either. See?' Charters stabbed his finger at the word. Caldicott peered more closely at it through the glass. ‘I'm with you, Charters. There's a sort of curly bit at the end of the word.'

‘What we call an S,' said Margaret.

‘Wells. One thousand and nine wells. Which wells? Oil wells?'

‘Or perhaps Wells the place. As in Bath and. He didn't come from that part of the world, did he?' Margaret asked.

Charters shook his head. ‘No, no, he was a Kentish man.'

‘Man of Kent, actually,' said Caldicott. ‘Little place called Yabble, after the river of that name.'

‘Yes, he meant to retire there. Be that as it may – Wells. What other kind of wells are there.'

‘Water wells,' Margaret offered.

Caldicott snapped his fingers. ‘H.G.'

‘Smart thinking, Caldicott,' said Charters.

‘His fellow Man of Kent!'

‘Or Kentish man. H.G. Wells,' said Charters, turning excitedly to Margaret. ‘Jock's favourite author.
The Time Machine
,
War of the Worlds
,
Tono-Bungay
– never tired of reading them. H.G. Wells, that
must
be it. Some reference, an allusion, something he'd expect us both to pick up on.'

‘A page number, perhaps,' said Margaret.

‘Page 1009? It'd have to be a pretty thick volume.'

‘He wrote some pretty thick volumes.
The History of the World
, to name but one.'

‘No, I'm not familiar with the history of the world.'

‘Oh, it's riveting. Lots of kings and queens.'

While Margaret teased Charters, Caldicott had been running his eyes along his bookshelves. Finally, he took out a thick, cloth-bound volume stamped with a crest and blew dust off it. ‘Here we are. House prize for the best-kept study –
The Collected Comic Novels of H. G. Wells
. I bagged it in my last year – the only prize I ever did get.'

‘And Jock Beevers the year before! Give that here, Caldicott.'

I'm quite capable of looking up page 1009, Charters,' said Caldicott, holding the volume out of Charters' reach while he leafed through the pages. ‘Kipps – Mr Polly – Oh.'

Margaret looked over his shoulder. ‘“Bealby”?'

‘What?' asked Charters.

‘One of the less memorable H.G. Wells comic tales. One thousand and nine is the title page. “Bealby”. That's all it says.

‘Yabble,' said Charters.

‘No, Bealby.'

‘Yabble,' said Margaret. ‘Oh, I see. It's an anagram. But where have I heard that name before?'

‘I mentioned it not a moment ago,' said Caldicott.

‘Jock's home village. Where he meant to retire,' said Charters.

‘The foxy blighter!' Caldicott exclaimed, the penny dropping. ‘He must be telling us to go there.'

‘Of course he is! Mix Well and Serve – proceed to Yabble.'

‘...and Serve?' Margaret wondered.

A foursome was in progress on the Yabble village tennis courts. The vicar, Adam Lamb, a dyspeptic-looking man in late middle-age, just failed to reach a high lob which soared over his head and bounced over the perimeter fence. ‘Would you mind?' he called to a passer-by walking past the courts. Obligingly, she picked up the ball as it trickled towards her and tossed it back. A map tucked into her pocket marked her out as a stranger to the village. It was the young woman who had been calling herself Jenny Beevers.

‘Thanks awfully,' said Lamb, scooping up the ball. ‘I say, that ramblers' map's not very good. Are you heading anywhere in particular?'

‘Jenny' smiled and shook her head.

‘The point I'm making is that there are a good many trespassing opportunities in these parts. I'd advise you to get our little guidebook from the Post Office Stores. That'll keep you on the straight and narrow.'

‘Jenny' thanked him and walked on briskly. Lamb, having made clear his disapproval of
ad hoc
rambling, returned to his game.

Charters and Caldicott, both armed with the sort of sticks town-dwellers regard as indispensable when travelling beyond the suburbs, were loitering outside the Post Office Stores waiting for Margaret. Charters who had been studying a timetable fixed to the wall, said, ‘I say, Caldicott! I believe I've found what we're looking for.'

Caldicott stopped pushing small pebbles about. ‘Already?'

‘Almost definitely. See here.' He pointed to the timetable.

‘If I take this four-twelve cross-country bus to Sevenoaks, there's a connecting bus through to Reigate that should drop me practically at my door. It'll save my returning to Town and you and Mrs Mottram having to make a tiresome detour to Victoria coach station.'

Caldicott glared at him. ‘I'm glad we've got your travel arrangements sorted out, Charters. Now, perhaps if you're not too pressed for time we can start our inquiries.'

‘No need to take that tone, old chap. We do have a clear five hours to find out why we're here. With a break for lunch, of course.'

‘What would you say to the village pub?'

‘We'll study the menu, certainly. Probably our only option.'

‘I meant in which to begin our inquiries! Unless Margaret has culled any better ideas from her book of words,' Caldicott added as Margaret came out of the stores with the village guidebook in her hand.

Margaret shook her head. ‘Not much of riveting interest here, unless you're keen on farmhouse cream teas.'

‘Alas, I have to catch the four-twelve to Sevenoaks,' said Charters.

‘None of the Beevers family extant, apparently, but Mrs Post Office Stores says there are Beeverses without number in the parish churchyard, so I suggest we start with the vicar.'

‘Ah. Not the village pub?' Caldicott asked.

‘Or the village pub,' Margaret agreed readily. ‘But don't let me drink more than two real gins or I shan't be fit to drive back.' She broke off, staring incredulously across the village green.

‘What is it, Margaret?' Caldicott asked.

‘You mean “Who is it?” That girl coming towards us.'

Charters and Caldicott peered at an approaching figure.

‘No, I can't make her out,' said Charters.

‘It isn't Jenny Beevers, surely?' Caldicott asked.

‘No it isn't, but it's the girl who's been passing herself off as Jenny Beevers. And before you two start putting her through the third degree, I want to know what she's done with my best pigskin suitcase.'