Dead Man’s Shoes (11 page)

Socker was leering revoltingly.

“Have you any reason for saying such a thing?”

“Isn't it reason enough that he went there every afternoon and she with her big buxom shape and her husband out so that they could romp and rumple to their hearts' content?”

“I see. It's just a guess of yours.”

“You'd guess it, too, if you know as much of the girls round here as I do. Since I was twelve I've been watching them, and when I could …”

“Yes, yes. I'm sure you're very experienced. The point is, did you tell anyone what you thought about Mr Willick and Mrs Packinlay? After all, you told me readily enough.”

“Ay, but he's dead, the poor old beggar, and he'll never be able to smack and dally her again. While he was having his spooning I'd never have said anything about it.”

“Did you see Mr Willick on the day he was murdered?”

“No. I was over at Hill Wood, on the other side of the estate.”

“Alone?”

A crafty look came into Socker's face.

“Why shouldn't I have been alone? I can't always have flesh and foolery to play with.”

“But were you?”

“Most of the time.”

“Who was with you?”

“Ah, you're the devil with your questions,” said Socker, looking, however, as though he thoroughly enjoyed them. “There's a fine old piece of a schoolmistress who likes a walk through Hill Wood and knows when I'm coming over there. She's as tall as a man and strong as a horse, but she has a way with her and a nice big upper part, and she doesn't fidget and fuss with a man, but knows what he likes….”

“So you met this lady. At what time?”

“It wasn't getting dark nor yet wasn't it sunlight. Round about five, I daresay. I keep no watch.”

“What were you doing till then?”

“I was busy with my work.”

“Did you hear any shots that afternoon?”

“No. But it's a long way from Burghley Wood to where I was. I wouldn't hear any shots from there. If I had, I'd have gone over pretty quick.”

“You know Lily Gunn's mother?”

“Known her for years. She was a saucy piece in her day. You didn't have to persuade
her
long to come and see the primroses. She liked a joke all right and a lot more besides when I was a boy and she a young woman.”

“Have you seen her lately?”

“Lately? She's past it years ago. She's got to the stumping round and wheezing stage.”

“I meant, to talk to,” said Carolus with some exasperation.

“Oh, to talk to. Yes, I saw her in here the other night. First time for a long time. I told her she was putting on weight. Getting a big thing I couldn't make my arms meet round, I said.”

“Once again, Socker, this is important. Did you mention Mr Willick to Mrs Gunn?”

“No, I was laughing at her for a dumpling, not talking about anyone.”

“You never saw the man who is believed to have murdered Mr Willick? The man who stayed here?”

“No. I never saw him.”

“That night Mrs Sweeny sent you to look for Mr Willick. You knew the way he usually went. Did you follow it? Or were you dandling and coddling, as you call it?”

“I followed it as best I could and I used the torch Mrs Sweeny had given me, but I saw nothing at all. Of course I did what I was told to do. I can't always be at hugging and pulling, can I, and I hadn't seen anyone that evening, though I thought I was meeting a …”

“Yet on the following morning you found Mr Willick's body at once?”

“That was different because it had been pulled out of the path by the legs and hidden in the undergrowth. I found it because I saw where it had been pulled, but it was hidden well enough not to be seen at night.”

“What about your dog?”

“I hadn't got a dog that day. Some wicked bastard had poisoned my old dog Randy a few days before and without naming names I believe it was someone up at the Place who didn't like his bark. Well, a dog has to bark, hasn't it? My cottage isn't as near as all that, anyway. This one, I call Roger, was only given me yesterday.”

“What did you do when you found the body?”

“Didn't touch it. Went over to Packinlays at once and told him. He got on the telephone to the police.”

“Thank you, Socker. Another rum? Good.”

Next day Carolus drove towards London at some speed and discouraged any conversation from Rupert. He was now deeply interested in the case and wanted to consider the various facts he had learnt in Barton Abbess and decide what inferences could safely be drawn from them.

It did not seem strange to him that none of the people
concerned had an alibi. People rarely do have alibis, in fact. He had made the experiment himself of pinpointing a moment on a certain date, then seeing what sort of alibi he could provide for himself, and the result had nearly always been negative.

All of them—Marylin, the Packinlays, Socker, Gusset, the Hoppys and Ridge—had been doing perfectly everyday things. There was nothing odd in any of their behaviour that afternoon as they described it now. But so far as they could prove to the contrary any one could have been at the scene of the crime at the time when it happened. Even Ridge could have obtained transport of some sort and been up to Burghley Wood and back again while the garage was fitting the spare part.

So far as he had yet discovered, there could be only one motive for the murder, whoever had committed it—money. Even Larkin, to the best of Carolus's present knowledge, had no other motive. It was pretty flimsy as a motive for Gusset or Hoppy, it was understandable for several whose benefits were larger, it was out of the question as a motive for Marylin.

They came to the outer suburbs of London very quickly as it seemed and Carolus stopped at a phone-box.

“I want to see Mrs Roper if she's still in London,” he explained to Rupert.

She was, but intended to leave in the morning.

“Better drive straight here. The Badmington.”

Carolus had once already faced the rather overpowering atmosphere of this ladies' club.

“Wouldn't you care to dine with me somewhere?” he pleaded.

“D'lighted. Meet at the Badmington first. See you.”

The receiver was down. He dropped Rupert to send his cable, arranging to pick him up later, then drove to the stern portals of the Badmington Club, which were guarded by what appeared to be a female commissionaire. He asked
for Mrs Roper and was told she would be down in a moment.

“You haven't changed in the least,” he said when the former Bugs Fitchley, her hands in the pockets of a tweed costume, towered over him.

She shook her head.

“Keep the weight down,” she said. “Shadow-boxing half an hour a day.”

She strode with him to the bar.

“Beer?” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Two pints,” she told the barmaid.

“How long have you been married?” asked Carolus.

“A year. Must meet Phil. He's a pet.”

It really sounded as if she meant a domestic one.

“I should like to.”

“Now—business,” said Mrs Roper as though this frivolous and expansive conversation had gone on too long. “Larkin was murdered.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain.”

“What makes you certain?”

“Saw something that night. Said nothing about it, but saw something.”

“When?”

“When this shout came. ‘Man overboard'. Wasn't in my cabin as I said.”

“Where were you?”

“In the galley. With Gunner the steward. Oh, nothing like that. Adore my Phil. No, scoffing a couple of sandwiches. Night starvation. Glass of Guinness. Gunner went to his cabin to fetch some snaps he wanted to show me. While he was gone I heard this awful sort of scream—‘Man overboard!' ”

“Go on,” said Carolus, but Mrs Roper paused for a draught of beer.

“Dashed out,” she continued at last, “to the bit of deck on the starboard side. Saw someone disappear into the entrance to the saloon.”

“But who?”

“Couldn't see. Just a tail end disappearing. Leg, I think. But someone definitely.”

“So you think this person, whoever it was, had thrown Larkin overboard?”

“What else?”

“It doesn't make sense. Larkin was a big man. Besides, why should the other shout ‘Man overboard' when he did it?”

“Don't ask me. Your job.”

“And if you could hear that shout, why didn't you hear one from Larkin? He surely didn't allow himself to be thrown overboard without shouting for help?”

“Don't know. Not my problem.”

“Moreover, why didn't you report it?”

“Might have involved Gunner. Besides, thought of you.”

“Very kind of you, Mrs Roper. Your theory of murder doesn't quite accord with the facts, though. Who do you think would murder this man?”

“Almost anyone on the ship. The Captain. Appleyard. Kutz. Gunner. Butt. Ferry. Prosper.”

“Or you?”

“Been glad to. Dreadful cad.”

“I've been down to Barton Abbess,” said Carolus. “Looking into the murder he was supposed to have committed.”

“Didn't he?”

“I don't know. I can't see wood for trees in this case. I'm going out to Tangier on Tuesday, travelling on the
Saragossa.
Perhaps that'll teach me something.”

Mrs Roper grew very thoughtful.

“On the
Saragossa?
Be a bit careful, eh? Something I
don't like about that ship. Maybe someone who won't like your nosing.”

“Don't worry. The passengers will be different people from those of your trip, of course.”

“Wasn't thinking of passengers. Keep off the deck at night.”

“Really, Bugs.”

“Dropped that name. Never do. Curate's wife. But be serious. It wasn't just Larkin. He was bad enough. Something else.”

“All right. Of course what really would clarify matters would be some link between the two deaths. Larkin's that, but if, as you believe, Larkin was murdered, he ceases to be a link. Unless there was anyone else on board who had some connection with the Willick case.”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“I always distrust coincidence. How can I believe that Gregory Willick was murdered, then the man suspected of his murder was murdered, and there was no connection between the two? It doesn't make sense.”

“Glad I haven't got to work it out. Back to Leeds tomorrow.”

For a moment Carolus almost envied her.

A
T THE
end of his first evening on the
Saragossa
Carolus was inclined to agree with Mrs Roper—there was something disturbing and unlikeable about the ship. The new passengers seemed a dull lot who would have transferred to another ship if it had been possible when they read about the events of the last voyage. As one man put it at dinner—“I demanded of the company that they should provide other accommodation, but they hadn't another ship for two months.”

“It's not very
nice,
is it?” said a lady passenger. “Knowing what has happened. I don't feel comfortable at all.”

It was not the unease among his fellow-passengers which vaguely disturbed Carolus, it was something in the atmosphere, a sort of strain or anxiety, as though everyone were expecting a shock.

Next morning at breakfast the lady passenger who did not think it very nice said she was sure she had seen a stranger pacing the deck last night. Rupert Priggley did not help matters by saying, “Obviously the ghost of Larkin.”

A natural explanation was found when a passenger who had been suffering from sea-sickness entered the saloon for the first time and the lady recognized him as last night's stranger, but the little incident added to the general disquiet.

Appleyard came to Carolus during the morning and said, “The Captain would like you to come and have a drink with him, Mr Deene. Shall we go up now?”

They found Bidlake looking serious.

“It's going to take two or three trips to get over this damned thing,” he said. “The passengers can talk about nothing else.”

“I'm afraid people do talk in a case of this sort,” said Carolus.

“It's the mystery that makes them. If it had all been clear-cut and straightforward it would have been forgotten long ago. But the wretched man had to go and type his suicide note, which gives no proof at all. Then he was suspected of the other murder and the Coroner brought in a verdict of ‘murder against person or persons unknown' there. It doesn't look as though it will ever be straightened out for good.”

“Mr Deene's doing his best, sir,” Appleyard pointed out.

“Yes. So I hear. Well, anything we can tell you. Let's see, who has the cabin Larkin occupied, Appleyard?”

“Mr Deene, of course. I arranged it specially. For one thing, the other passengers might not have liked it. For another, I thought it might interest him.”

“It does,” said Carolus. “Now I wonder whether you would mind running over the events of the night when Larkin disappeared, exactly as they happened.”

Appleyard volunteered to do so. It took nearly a quarter of an hour and a second round of drinks before he had finished.

“Thanks,” said Carolus. “That's clear enough. I suppose we have to admit of three possibilities, though one is so far-fetched that it can almost be ruled out. It could have been suicide. It could have been murder. It could have been an accident.”

“An accident? What about the suicide note?”

“I said it was far-fetched. But suppose someone who saw him fall accidentally wanted it to appear that he had committed suicide, he
could
have typed the note afterwards. There was time for him to do so. But let's not consider that because it's carrying open-mindedness to the point of absurdity. Let us suppose it was murder. So far as I can see from what you have told me, only three of the people on board are really exempt from all suspicion of throwing Larkin overboard—you, Captain, you, Mr Appleyard, and the
apprentice Dickie Bryce. Captain Bidlake was in his cabin, because you at once went to the speaking-tube and spoke to him, you and Bryce were on the bridge. That excludes the three of you from having bundled him into the sea, but it doesn't absolutely prove that none of you killed him. He could have been a corpse already, merely got rid of by an accomplice.”