Death in Albert Park (10 page)

“Just as you like.”

“I must just feed Dover, if you'll hold on a minute.”

Over lunch Carolus confided in Crabbett a few of the conclusions or half-conclusions he was drawing.

“I haven't asked any questions about the second murder,” he said, “but I know something about the first. It has been said that the victims had nothing in common, but that's not quite true. All three, for instance, were small women, or at least short in stature.”

“So they were,” said Crabbett. “Does that indicate anything?”

“It suggests, but doesn't really indicate. The murderer might have had a grudge against small women. Or he might have been a small man himself, incapable of that particular knife-stroke on someone tall.”

“Hermione was not remarkably short,” said Crabbett. “I mean, no one would call her that. Just under the
average, that's all. What else had they in common?”

“Well, your wife and Hester Starkey were both women of character.”

“Hermione was that, I suppose. What else?”

“Nothing, that occurs to me. Your wife wasn't acquainted with either of the others, was she?”

“Not that I know of.”

“No. There are no links between the three murders— except the murderer.”

“What were you looking for? A common motive?”

“You can't discount motive,” said Carolus defensively.

“Oh, I thought you could with a madman.”

“Not even then,” said Carolus.

They drove to the suburb of Albert Park in a few minutes and Crabbett suggested that Carolus should park his car some way from his daughter's house.

“I don't want her to see me or she'll wonder why I don't come in. Besides she has a very inquisitive neighbour, she tells me. She's rather sensitive about it. Anyhow, this is about opposite the garden in which Hermione was found. One of those.”

“It was number 27,” said Carolus.

“Then that's it. Just opposite.”

“Yes, I see. So the murderer must have been waiting about here somewhere.”

“I suppose so.”

“May we walk down by the route that she would have taken to the bus-stop?”

“Certainly. It's not very far.”

They reached the bottom of Salisbury Gardens and turned left along Inverness Road. In about twenty yards Oaktree Avenue, which ran up the west side of
the park, turned off to their left and on its corner was the lodge gates. A man in uniform who was standing beside them greeted Crabbett.

“Afternoon, Mr. Crabbett,” he called cheerfully.

Crabbett gave him a friendly reply and walked on.

“Slatter,” he explained to Carolus. “The park-keeper. Avery good chap.”

“Known him long?”

“To tell you the truth I met him in the bar of the Mitre some months ago. The Mitre's on the next corner. I was waiting to pick up Hermione …”

“You'll forgive me asking this,” said Carolus. “But did you
never
accompany your wife on her visits to your daughter?”

“Of course you can ask it. The answer is, not more often than I could help. I'm very fond of my daughter and little grandchild, but to tell you the truth I don't get on with Pressley. He's a self-opinionated fellow and in the end it came to an open dispute between us. That's why I scarcely ever went to the house.”

“Of course. I see,” said Carolus. Didn't he know these family situations?

“This is where Hermione would have taken the bus. So you see she hadn't very far to come on foot. I'm going from here myself.”

“You've been very kind and helpful.”

“Not a bit. Let me know if there's anything more I can do. I have a feeling you'll find your man, though.”

Carolus rang the bell at Number 12, the Pressleys' home, and waited a long time for an answer. At last a woman with bright red hair and a toothy smile answered him.

“Oh yes,” she said, “I've heard about you. Not supposed to tell you anything, are we? Or so I heard
from one of the police. But I don't take any notice of them. Come in.”

Carolus followed her into a drawing-room furnished with rather expensive modern pieces arranged with stereotyped good taste.

“You've seen my father, I suppose? Not that he could tell you much. Just like him to be late that night.”

“Was it?”

“Dad? He's always late. Or has been for the last two years. Seems to have gone sort of dreamy though I can remember him when he was very wide awake. I'm sorry for him, really.”

“Your mother's death was a tragedy for both of you.”

“Oh, I didn't mean that. I meant—his life. He doesn't seem to take an interest in anything.”

Carolus did not contradict this, though he had formed a very different impression.

“He has a dog to take an interest in now.”

“A dog?” Isobel Pressley looked quite startled. “Has he really? Mother would turn in her grave. She couldn't bear dogs. Of course I don't see much of dad. He and my husband don't get on, really. They had a little difference some time ago and haven't spoken since. Dad's like that, very quiet and sort of shy, but, if he takes a dislike to someone he can't hide it. It made things very awkward sometimes. I suppose I get that from him, really.”

Carolus turned the conversation back to more relevant matters.

“So when your father failed to come for your mother that evening it was nothing unusual?”

“I wouldn't say that. He'd never failed her like that before though he was often late. But we all knew dad.”

“Your mother would not wait any longer?”

“No. I think she wanted to teach him a lesson. She knew he'd be very upset when he heard she'd had to go by bus.”

“She was angry?”

“Well. Mother was a downright sort of person. When dad didn't come for her she just said ‘I shall walk, then', and I couldn't persuade her. Though I must say we never thought of those murders at the time.”

“Pity.”

“Oh, I don't know. It wouldn't have made much difference, if I knew mother. If she'd made up her mind wild horses wouldn't change her, let alone the Stabber. She'd have gone just the same. We haven't a car or we'd have run her home.”

“It was just before eight?”

“Yes, and he was supposed to have come at seven. You can't blame her for being a bit annoyed, can you? It isn't as though dad …”

“What were you going to say?”

“It's not very nice to talk about it, but it was mother who had the money. Dad retired ages ago, without much of a pension.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Oh mother wanted him to. She had ideas for them, you see. Mother was always a bit… well, a bit
grande dame,
I suppose. It seems dreadful to say that now, but you know what I mean.”

“I think so. I wonder whether I shall have an opportunity for a few words with your husband?”

“Harry. Why not? He can tell you more than I can. He's got a better memory. Only it's his late evening this evening. He'll be home quite early tomorrow. Why not come then? I suppose you're going to see that old bitch opposite? I thought so. You could call in afterwards, or
before. She'll be dying to know who you are now. She'll guess you're not Press or police. Still. Never mind. You come in tomorrow and we'll tell you anything we can.

“Thanks. Your father tells me he sometimes has a drink at the Mitre so I suppose your husband uses another pub?”

“Well yes, he does when he has a drink which isn't very often. He goes to the King's Head. Mother was teetotal, by the way.”

“Oh, was she?”

“I'm not, though. There were a lot of things mum was that I'm not, I'm afraid.”

“Yet you all seem to have been very fond of her,” pondered Carolus.

“Oh yes, we were. Even Harry, my husband, though he had his differences with her. I've known him swear he'll never be here again on a Thursday which was her evening for coming over. But he always got over it. Well, you couldn't help
liking
mum, even if she did put it on a bit.”

“Thank you for all your information, Mrs. Pressley.”

“I've told you nothing, really. But you come and see Harry tomorrow.”

I
N
one way this case differed from others which Carolus had tackled—here everyone was willing, and some were eager, to talk. It rather shook his confidence in his own method. Naturally since each of these women had been the chance-chosen innocent victim of a madman, their relatives had nothing to hide and were only too willing to chatter about Hester and her high-handed contempt for men or Hermione and her small-town grandeur, or doubtless, when he came to it, of Joyce and her idiosyncrasies. In most cases of murder there were connections between victim and murderer, between the circumstances and the act, which gave those left behind fears, anxieties and shames, and caused them to be evasive. Here everyone talked most willingly and generally, Carolus thought, truthfully.

Was it wrong then to apply his usual method of disingenuously questioning those connected with the victim? Was he wasting time? If so, if this case was to be his first failure, so be it. He could go about it no other
way. The police with their resources and experience were able to attack by more direct methods, and perhaps the only ones that would succeed. They could use patrols, follow investigations of a well-organized kind, perhaps even use a policewoman out of uniform in an attempt to make the murderer break cover. For Carolus there was only his own time-honoured way—and the chance, by no means to be counted out—of a piece of luck. He must, he thought on the morning after he had seen Crabbett, bash on regardless, and his next inevitable interview must be with Miss Pilkin.

He waited, however, until the afternoon before ringing the bell of the house opposite the Pressleys'.

The door was opened by a bright young woman who called “Someone for you, Miss Pilkin,” when Carolus had said what he wanted.

“I'll come down,” called a voice from above.

“She'll be down in a minute,” said the young woman unnecessarily. “She's just come in from her walk.”

“Thank you.”

“I better wait. She may not want to see you. She's had a lot come to call on her lately. She's very funny, you know.”

“Funny?”

“You know what I mean. She's getting on. And living all alone like that. It's her house, really, only she lets us the ground floor and we look after her a bit. It's all that dog with her. Here she comes.”

Miss Pilkin descended the stairs with some deliberation. She was a big bony woman with high cheek-bones and large weak eyes. Her clothes were untidy and she was festooned with beads and bangles.

“Gentleman to see you,” said the young woman cheerfully.

“Turn to the light,” Miss Pilkin commanded Carolus. “Let me see your face.” She scrutinized him hungrily. “Ah yes, you have a good face. You may come up.”

Carolus followed her to a Victorian sitting-room on the first floor where he was eyed incuriously by a Pomeranian dog lying on a cushion.

“Yes, Ursus approves of you, and he is a good judge of character. Please sit down and tell me what you wish to see me about.”

Carolus introduced and explained himself, and asked if Miss Pilkin wished to say anything.

“I wish to say a great deal,” she announced. “Things which I have said to no one. I have instincts in these matters, Mr. Deene, I have guidances, which are not to be ignored.”

Carolus would have preferred facts, but nodded gravely.

“It may be you have, too. It may be that you have been guided to me. For I can help you.”

“That's good. You know the people opposite, I believe?”

“I knew them, but I fear I always mistrusted them, or rather the man. I have acute perceptions in these matters and everything told me he was bad, bad. I was sorry for his wife and remained on friendly terms with her until she behaved with terrible cruelty to Ursus, my… I won't say my dog, for he is so much more than that, as you can see. My companion.”

“How was that?”

“She was taking her child out in its wheelchair. I was on my way home from my afternoon walk with Ursus. It happens that he is devoted to children, a taste I do not altogether share. If he sees a child he likes to greet it. That is what he did on the afternoon I am recalling.
He went across to the wheelchair and said ‘Good afternoon', as dogs do. As plain as could be, he was saying ‘good afternoon' to the child, smiling at it, wanting to play, or perhaps be no more than polite. But the wretched child, instead of smiling and saying ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Ursus' as any sensible child would, set up a howl, and the mother, this woman Pressley, began to belabour poor Ursus with an umbrella. It was not only from the blows he suffered. His feelings were hurt. To be struck and abused when all you have done is to be courteous and friendly was too much for him.”