Calamity in Kent, A British Library Crime Classic (15 page)

“And what about them?” I asked.

“I know of another set.”

This, I told myself, was the right sort of information; it was the very sort of clue which would make Shelley want to jump for joy. I only hoped that I should be able to find out something more.

“But I thought,” I said, “that there were only two sets—the set in your possession, and the other set that hang in the council offices.”

“Ah,” he said, winking again, “that's what everybody thinks. But I know better.”

“And who has the other set?” I asked.

“A certain gentleman,” he said. “He asked me, months ago, to let him take plaster casts of my keys.”

“And you allowed him to do that?”

“Yes; he paid me well to do it.”

“And what reason did he give for taking impressions of the keys?” I asked.

“So that he could play a joke on someone.”

This seemed a pretty feeble effort, but I supposed that it might well be the sort of explanation which would get past a man as stupid as Bender appeared to be.

“Won't you tell me who it is?” I asked.

He shook his head emphatically. “What I know I believe in keeping to myself,” he said.

And there I was compelled to leave the matter.

Chapter XVII

In Which Accusations Are Made

I kept
The Daily Wire
fairly satisfied by phoning them a sensational account of the second murder. I provided a little character cameo of the man Margerison, hinted at his double identity (though I imagine that the character of Cyrus Watford was made up on the spur of the moment to keep me quiet), and suggested that further sensational results were pending, as soon as the police had carried out certain routine checks of information that was already in their possession.

That last, in fact, is always a safe card to play. The average reader of newspapers never seems to realise that the suggestion that the police are on the track of something big is the normal “come-back” of the crime reporter stuck for something to say.

Still, I thought that I was keeping things up pretty well. I was as sure as I could be of a big splash on the front page for the second day running. I had probably already earned enough to ensure my being able to pay for my stay in Broadgate. And I intended to slap in a fairly heavy expense account soon. After all, I saw no reason why the paper shouldn't pay for some of the entertainment which I had done.

That evening I thought that the time had come to relax a bit. It was all very well, I told myself, to concentrate on the job in hand. But everyone needs to relax at times. My mood of the morning, when I had felt impelled to action, had passed.

I craved some sort of entertainment. And entertainment, with me, usually involves beer. I am no soaker, mind you, but I hold that the national beverage of the Englishman is something which provides a useful sideline to any other amusement which may be on the way.

So I wandered around Broadgate, wondering which of the many pubs I should honour with my custom. There was the Hartfield, that huge erection at one end of the promenade. It had a sort of dive-bar, which could be reached either from the promenade or from the beach. I had found that a pleasant spot in the past. But it was expensive, and the beer was often luke-warm on a really hot evening. So I gave that a miss. Then there was the Royal George, the big residential place on the front. The saloon bar there kept some first-rate draught beer; but again it was likely to be hot and crowded. I thought that I would like something smaller and, if possible, quieter.

I remembered the Brewer's Arms, an unpretentious little pub, originally, no doubt, intended for the fishermen. It was down almost on the quay, on the side of Broadgate which was still more or less like it had been in the old days. You got a few of the visitors here, plus some of the artists and writers who had settled in the town. But on the whole it was a peaceful little pub; and in my present mood a peaceful little pub was just what I craved.

To the Brewer's Arms I therefore went. I bought myself a pint of bitter and settled in a corner to study humanity. I often think that a strange pub is one of the best places in the world to do that.

As I settled down I glanced around me to see if there was anyone I knew in the place. I did not expect that any of those with whom I had come into contact in connection with the case would put in an appearance; somehow it did not seem to me that the type of people I had met up to now were quite the sort who would find the Brewer's Arms just a congenial spot. But in a few minutes I realised that I was wrong.

I was conscious, in the way in which one often is, that I was being stared at. Then I glanced around to see who it was who was looking at me. Soon I saw. In the opposite corner of the bar were seated two moderately familiar figures—none other than Maya Johnson and Timothy Foster. I caught the man's eye and he smiled in a half-hearted sort of way. I was not going to miss any opportunity of improving my knowledge of the case, so I got to my feet, strolled across the bar, and stood by them. They were, after all, in a public place anyhow, so I didn't reckon that I should be spoiling their
tête-a-tête
by speaking to them.

“I hope I'm not butting in,” I said. And I really don't think that I was. Probably these two had been so consumed with a combination of curiosity and anxiety that they were only too glad to find someone to whom they could talk about the murders. Of course, I didn't know what Shelley and his minions might have said to them already; but I thought that I could rely on my sense of atmosphere to be pretty sure that I didn't say anything too stupid, put my foot in it too openly.

Anyhow, I was sure that I was welcome there at first. For Maya Johnson moved along the old wooden settle thing on which the pair were seated, smiled, and indicated that I should sit down with them.

I accepted the implied invitation with alacrity. I knew that here I might be getting myself a little involved, as I had done earlier with Bender; but after all I had no official standing at all in the case, and it was up to me to get such information as I could by whatever method I liked. I didn't worry at all that some people might have frowned on my methods of getting the information; nor did it worry me that my methods were not exactly those which Shelley might have chosen.

I was not Detective-Inspector Shelley, with all the might of Scotland Yard behind me. I was a mere pressman, working on my own; and whatever seemed to me the most satisfactory way of getting information, as long as I did not go too far on the wrong side of the law, it was in every way open to me to use. That was how I looked at the matter through the whole course of the case; and I think that the sequel showed that I was right. As to that the reader will be able to judge when he comes to the end of this narrative.

“Any news, Mr. London?” Maya Johnson asked eagerly as I sat down.

“Well, that depends, in the words of the well-known broadcaster, on what you mean by news,” I said, stalling for all I was worth.

“Have they caught the murderer yet?” asked Foster.

“No.” That was an easy one to answer. But I resented the fact that I was being asked questions. I had intended to do all the asking, and let them answer my queries.

“Any ideas on the subject of the murderer's identity, Mr. London?” asked Maya Johnson. There was a slight suggestion of bantering in the tone of these people, but at the same time I was well aware of the seriousness of their position. I was assured that they too didn't feel themselves to be in a position of a hundred per cent safety.

“Well,” I said, “everybody has their theories in these matters, you know.”

“And what is yours?” asked Foster.

I recalled a remark of Bender's earlier in the day. “Well, there is a law of libel in this country, you know,” I said. “One can't be too outspoken in such affairs as these, or one may find a prosecution for criminal libel hanging around one. And that is something which I have no ambition to undergo.”

“We think that we know who did it, you know,” Maya Johnson said seriously. I studied that beautiful face with added interest.

“Really?”

“Yes; you see, we knew Tilsley and we knew a little of his affairs. Not that he talked about them very much, but now and then he let something slip. Tim and I have been exchanging ideas since we saw you yesterday, seeing how our memories of Tilsley tallied, and we both agree on the point of the man in Broadgate who is most likely to have been responsible for Tilsley's death.”

“Really?” I didn't dare to do anything in the way of mental jogging here. If these young people were to share with me the idea that had come to them, the sharing would be a matter of their own free will, and nothing that I did or said would make very much difference.

“Who do you suspect?” I asked. “I'll not take any advantage of what you say. I'll only undertake to pass on to the correct quarters whatever seems to me to have some sort of factual basis. And I'll see that there is some sort of protection against the libel laws, if such protection is possible—which I think it will be.”

They exchanged glances. I could see that they were in two minds, doubtful, not knowing me well enough to judge if I could be really trusted. I didn't know what I could very well do to increase their trust, but I knew that the best thing that I could do was to let the couple have their head, and hope that they would be able to tell me what they knew, without in any way straining whatever good will I had managed to build up for myself in their minds.

“Did you ever hear of a man called Margerison?” asked Foster at length.

“The name is familiar,” I said realising that they had not seen an evening paper, and so did not know anything about the second murder that had taken place in Broadgate.

“He is a dealer of some sort—I'm not sure what sort—but we think that there is something more than a little crooked about him,” Maya Johnson explained.

“And what does that mean?” I asked.

“That we think he murdered John Tilsley,” answered Foster.

I smiled. “I'm afraid that you're barking up the wrong tree there,” I said.

“Why?” they exclaimed simultaneously.

“Because Margerison himself was murdered late last night,” I said.

“What?” This was almost a roar from Foster.

“I assure you that it is true,” I said. I took a folded edition of an evening paper from under my arm, and pointed to a headline on the front page.

Foster fairly grabbed the paper from me. He spread it out on the table before him, and he and Maya Johnson devoured its contents eagerly. There was no doubt that this revelation had taken them by surprise.

Now I was becoming conscious that there was a sudden increase in the tension of the atmosphere. I am sensitive to these things, and I was aware that something was happening. I looked up and drew in my breath with a sudden hiss.

Standing in front of us was another of the odd figures who had already come into the case—Mrs. Skilbeck, the pale woman from the Charrington Hotel. I was very surprised to see her there. Her face was distorted with grief and rage. Something had happened, I could tell, to cause a real emotional crisis in this normally stoical woman.

“Mr. London!” she gasped. “I saw you come in here, and I watched and followed.”

This surprised me somewhat. “Why?” I asked. “Have you got something to ask me or tell me?”

“I thought I had something to tell you,” she said, “and that is why I followed you in here. Now I'm not so sure that I have anything which I should care to tell you, when I see the company which you are in.” Her eyes flashed fire as she glanced at Maya Johnson and Timothy Foster.

This was so surprising to me that I did not quite know how to respond to it.

“I'm afraid that I don't understand you,” I said. “These people are friends of mine, and they were friends of Mr. Tilsley. They have been kind, in trying to help me towards solving the mystery of his death—a mystery in which I thought you too were interested.”

I was a little consciously on my dignity; but, honestly, I couldn't for the life of me see what the woman was getting at.

“You won't solve the mystery of his death by talking to these people if you talk to them till doomsday,” she said. “And you say that they are friends of yours and friends of John Tilsley's. They may be friends of yours—I don't care if they are or not—but they were certainly never friends of his. I knew him too well to swallow any such story as that. Of course, you never knew him, or knew anything about what he was doing, so I cannot answer for your opinion of them.”

This was a completely unexpected speech, and I didn't know what to say about it. Certainly Mrs. Skilbeck was an odd woman, and she had some queer mental attributes. Maya Johnson had been gazing at the newcomer with wide-open, astonished eyes. Now she spoke to her.

“We were friends and business acquaintances of Mr. Tilsley,” she said. “I don't know who you are to say that we can't help Mr. London, here, to solve the mystery of his death. We have certain ideas about the matter. They may be mistaken ideas—I wouldn't know about that—but they are at least sincere, and you have no right, no right whatever, to say that we do not mean everything we say.”

“I don't know much about you, Maya Johnson,” replied Mrs. Skilbeck. “One thing, however, I do know about Timothy Foster here. You might be wiser, if you are fond of him, not to ask me what it is.”

Maya Johnson looked completely mystified. I certainly shared her feelings.

“I don't understand,” she said.

“I thought you might not,” Mrs. Skilbeck replied, and her face took on an expression of determination. She looked like some grim avenger as she stood there.

“But what do you say that you know about Tim?” Maya Johnson asked quietly.

“I know what John Tilsley used to say about him—he said it to me repeatedly.”

“And what was that?” It was curious, I reflected, that this scene of complex drama could be played out in the saloon bar of a little Kentish public house without anyone else becoming aware of what was going on. None of the other drinkers in the bar seemed even to notice that anything was happening which merited their attention.

“What did John Tilsley say about Tim?” repeated Maya Johnson. Timothy Foster laid his hand on her arm, as if he would restrain her from going any further in the matter, but she shook his hand off in an irritated fashion.

“No, Tim, I want to know,” she said.

“You shall know, if you want to, and much good will it do you,” said Mrs. Skilbeck. “John always said that he would be murdered, and that Tim Foster would be his murderer!”

There was silence. Then Mrs. Skilbeck, with that uncanny glide-like walk, made her way out of the bar, while Maya Johnson collapsed over the table, her head on her arms, in a helpless storm of tears.