Fall of a Philanderer (9 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Fall of a Philanderer
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“Oh? A budding Sherlock Holmes?”
“No. When I was young I used to think he was the last word, but honestly, however clever he seems he's got to be a bit of a fool to be using cocaine, hasn't he? And as for learning to play the violin! And now Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's got mixed up in this spiritualist bosh. No, Dr. Thorndyke is much more the thing. Did you know R. Austin Freeman is actually a doctor himself? Of course, Dr. Thorndyke is a lawyer and criminologist as well, but it's something to work towards, isn't it? Besides, one can follow his logic, which I can't always with Holmes, and I like it that Thorndyke is as keen on defending the innocent against unjust accusations as hunting the guilty. Do you know
The Red Thumb-Mark
, sir?”
Alec admitted to having read the book, distressing to a policeman since it proved that fingerprints could be forged. He let Vernon continue his prattle, saving his own breath for climbing. With the youth hard on his heels, he didn't care to slow down. The lifeboat had disappeared around the eastern headland. He was almost beginning to wish he had risked seasickness and gone with it.
They reached and passed the boulder, and on the other side came face to face with Constable Puckle.
Standing rigidly at attention, he saluted. “Chief Inspector, sir, I thought as summun ought to stay on guard here to keep people away that didn't ought to go down.”
“Good thinking, Officer. Besides, it was your decision. You're in charge until your superiors arrive.”
“Me, sir? Oh no, sir! Them in Exeter was going to ring up Scotland Yard on the telephone and ask 'em to put you on the case. Seeing you're here already, sir.”
“Dammit, man, I'm on holiday!” Alec had no illusions that Superintendent Crane would refuse his services. As soon as the super and the assistant commissioner heard that Daisy was involved, however peripherally—and since she had reported the incident, they were bound to hear—they would positively insist on his taking the case. They still laboured under the delusion that he was capable of reining
her in. “Besides,” he added, his tone irate, “what made them think this is a case worthy of the attentions of the CID?”
“Well, sir, murder, sir. The county constabluary often calls in the CID for murder, sir.”
“But why should they think it was murder, not an accident?”
Puckle looked at him in surprise. “Acos of I told ‘em you was here, sir. Stands to reason. If 'tweren't murder, why would a detective chief inspector from the Yard be on the spot, like?”
Turning a baleful glare on Vernon, who suppressed his snickers with an effort, Alec said irritably, “All right, let's get back to the police station and see what's going on.” Until he was officially in charge, he really ought not to enlighten the village constable about the presumed identity of the dead man, nor his theory as to the cause of death. Puckle seemed too abashed even to wonder.
With the constable in the lead, the trek up the cliff slowed to a crawl. Unlike Tom Tring, also a large man, Fred Puckle's bulk was not mostly muscle. Alec found himself longing for his sergeant, but nonetheless determined not to send for him and spoil the Trings' holiday as well as his own and Daisy's.
Vernon's stream of confidences had stopped. After a few sighs of impatience, he was silent, even his rubber-soled tennis shoes making little sound on the path. Then a triumphant exclamation stopped Alec.
“Sir! Look here!”
Alec glanced back. Vernon was standing a few yards back, by a rocky outcrop at a point where the path doubled back on itself.
“What is it?”
“Do come and see.”
Puckle had also come to a halt, puffing like a steam engine. “You go on ahead, Constable,” said Alec. “We'll catch up with you. What is it?” he asked again, retracing his steps.
“Splinters, here on this rock. With the magnifying glass they look just like the ones from Enderby's neck. I bet with a microscope I could tell for sure. Dr. Thorndyke could, anyway.”
“A pity we don't have him with us,” Alec said dryly. “Well, you might as well take a sample. I suppose it's remotely possible the object used to hit Enderby was thrown over and happened to hit here on its way down.” He looked down a steep slope of scree ending in a jumble of particularly jagged rocks between which the waves still surged, though the tide must be near its lowest ebb. “But if so, I doubt we'll ever recover it.”
Vernon took an empty specimen bottle and a pair of tweezers from his black bag. “I never would have noticed if Puckle wasn't so slow. I ought to have examined the path closely all the way. Thorndyke would have. Only I didn't think of it till we slowed down,” he said with regret.
“I'm sure you would have made an apt pupil if he were not a fictional character.”
Unoffended, the medical student grinned. “Julia thinks I'm an absolute ass, but I do think I'd make a better pupil than Jervis. He's definitely not too swift in the uptake. It seems to be the fashion to give the top detectives rather thick assistants. Look at Dr. Watson. And do you know this new chappie, the Belgian detective? Same thing—he has the bumbling Colonel Hastings to crow over. There.” Stoppering the bottle, he added optimistically, “You never know. It may be a vital clue!”
“Since it appears that I'm to be thrust willy-nilly into the case, I hope so. However, at present I'm no more than a witness. The Devonshire police would have every right to strongly resent my interference. I therefore do not feel justified in making a search of the area from which Enderby fell, though it would be a pity if any evidence were lost by delay.”
“I'm with you, sir.” Vernon's grin broadened. “You can count on me, and I'll claim it was my own idea.”
Though he had half hoped for this response, Alec reconsidered. The youth was keen, but he was an amateur. If evidence was destroyed by his bungling, Alec would hold himself responsible whether or not anyone found out he had encouraged the boy.
Silently cursing his anomalous position, he said, “No, I think not, though I appreciate the offer.”
He went on after Constable Puckle and caught up with him near the top. Glancing back, he expected to see the would-be medico-legal practitioner close behind, but Vernon had stopped some way down, apparently to examine the surface of the path.
With a smile and a shake of the head, Alec left him to it. He was in a hurry to get to the police station and find out whether he really was going to have to take over the investigation. Anything to be discovered on the cliff-top could wait. It wasn't as if the place was going to be overrun by trippers who might confuse the evidence, especially as that sinister bank of fog was advancing landward.
A solitary man stood at the top of the path, however, a dark figure against the sky. “What's going on, Constable?” It was Baskin, walking staff in hand. “Oh, it's you, Mr. Fletcher. I've been watching from up here. What's happened? I hope Mrs. Fletcher and the girls are all right?”
“Perfectly, thank you.” Alec eyed his stick—six feet of polished, seasoned oak, an excellent weapon but with no sign of splintering. “You've been walking up here?”
“I was on my way home when I saw the lifeboat and stopped to watch the rescue. A holiday visitor, I presume? I doubt the local people are such fools as to sail close to shore or go bathing in a sea like this.”
“Not such fools as to go sea-bathing at all,” Puckle grunted.
“It's a local resident.”
“Now who might that be, sir? Mrs. Fletcher didn't tell me.”
“Mrs. Fletcher didn't know. I wasn't certain until the lifeboatmen and Mr. Vernon confirmed my guess, and as I'm sure you are aware, Constable, legal identity must be established by next-of-kin, if possible. However, I'll tell you: It appears to be George Enderby.”
“Mr. Enderby bain't what I'd call a local man,” muttered Puckle, shaking his head in dismay, “but there's them as won't be sorry.”
Baskin's reaction was unexpected and much more interesting. After
a moment of shock, he looked perplexed and frustrated. “Is he badly hurt?” he asked.
“Dead.”
Relief lit Baskin's face.
As though a huge burden had fallen from his shoulders, Alec thought. A little delving into the connection between the landlord and the schoolmaster was called for. But not here and now—first to the police station to discover whether the delving was for him to do, or whether by some miracle it was none of his business.
T
he sun had disappeared behind the hill, but the air was still warm and Daisy sat on in the garden, determined to catch Alec as he passed on his way to the police station. The girls, having solicitously settled her in a deck-chair with a book, had gone down to the beach for a while and were now indoors eating their supper.
Perhaps she dozed off. At any rate, she was startled when a voice nearby said, “Hullo, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Donald Baskin was coming up the steps from the path, and beyond him Daisy saw Alec walking on towards the town with Constable Puckle and an unknown young man dressed for tennis.
“Alec, wait!” she called, and started to get up in a hurry. The deck-chair collapsed beneath her.
Baskin dropped his stick and rushed to help her. He had her on her feet and was righting the chair when Alec bounded up the steps.
“Daisy, are you hurt?”
“Not at all,” she said crossly. She hadn't fallen far, but she was shaken and flustered.
“Sorry!” Baskin apologized. “I took you by surprise.”
“It wasn't your fault, Mr. Baskin. It was yours, Alec. You were trying to sneak past without my seeing you!”
“You need your rest, love, after all that dashing up and down cliffs.”
“I didn't dash, I took my time. And I'm perfectly rested, thank you. I'm coming with you.”
“The girls …”
“Mrs. Anstruther is giving them supper. I'm sure she won't mind keeping an eye on them for half an hour. Would you mind giving her the message, Mr. Baskin?”
“Not at all. I'll be here, too.”
“Thank you. And tell them I'll be back to tuck them into bed.” Daisy took Alec's arm and tugged him towards the steps. “Oh, good, Puckle has gone ahead. Tell me all about it, now, before they drag you in to take charge and you go all official and secretive.”
“Daisy, why on earth did you tell them I'm a copper?”
“I didn't, darling. Puckle was being rather dismissive—I'm afraid I set up his back the other day, over Sid—and Belinda flew to the rescue with the information that her daddy's a Scotland Yard chief inspector and therefore knows all about dead bodies. I could hardly deny it. Believe me, I'd much rather you took a proper holiday for once. What have you done with the body?”
“The lifeboat came and took it off. That young chap walking with Puckle is a medical student, the nearest thing on hand to a police surgeon. Enthusiastic, but he couldn't do much more than confirm that Enderby was dead, which was perfectly obvious.”
“It
was
Enderby, then? You weren't sure.”
“Yes, the lifeboatmen recognized him, as did Vernon, the doctor-to-be.”
“Probably murder then,” Daisy said with a sigh. “At least, plenty of people must have felt like murdering him. Oh blast, they're bound to rope you in, darling.”
“Puckle seems to think the presence of a Scotland Yard detective on the scene is
prima facie
evidence of murder. I gathered his superiors in Exeter intended to ring up and ask for my help. It's not likely to be refused.”
“Blast! I suppose Vernon couldn't tell you whether he fell or was drowned, or when?”
“There was evidence that he fell, probably around three o'clock.”
“Not long before we got there! I don't want to hear the gory details. I just hope it wasn't Baskin or Anstruther who pushed him over. I like them both.”
“Baskin?” Alec's sudden alertness told Daisy he was already mentally involved in the case, however outwardly reluctant. “What do you know about Baskin and Enderby?”
“Nothing specific, darling. Just that he seemed inexplicably curious about him. He wanted to know how long he'd lived in Westcombe, where he came from, where he spent the War, how he and Mrs. Enderby got on together.”
Alec raised his eyebrows. “Odd! He asked you? How did he expect you to know?”
“No, mostly he asked Mrs. Anstruther. It was most embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing? Why? Daisy, don't tell me you already knew about her affair with Enderby!”
“Actually, yes, I did.”
“Great Scott, they weren't carrying on in the house, with Belinda and Deva here?”
“No, no. It was over already. She told me.”
“How do you do it? You just gaze at people with those deceptively guileless blue eyes of yours, and they fall over themselves to make you a gift of all their secrets. I don't suppose Baskin told you why he wanted to know about Enderby?”
“I'm afraid not. The oddest thing was that when I told him I'd heard the Enderbys quarrelling, he looked relieved.”
“Hmm. That is odd. He had the same reaction when he heard of Enderby's death. But at first, when he thought the man was alive but injured, I could have sworn he looked as if he didn't know what to do next, as if some long-held plan had been thwarted.”
“That would fit, if he'd intended to have a go at Enderby himself and someone beat him to it. I suppose he was glad to hear the Enderbys
were not on the best of terms because he didn't want Nancy Enderby to be upset by an attack on Georgie Porgie. But surely that means he didn't push him over?”
“Unless he's a damn good actor.”
“He's a schoolmaster, not an actor,” Daisy pointed out.
“So he says. But come to think of it, schoolmasters must act all the time, at least the good ones. They shouldn't let on when they take a dislike to a particular child, or a special liking, come to that, which is bound to happen sometimes.”
“But if he was such a good actor, darling, he would have concealed his relief at Enderby's death.”
“He doesn't know I'm a policeman. I don't suppose he has much opinion of Puckle's powers of perception.”
“Well, if you want to get so convoluted, perhaps he put on a look of relief because he knew the police would find out he had good reason to hate Enderby and would wonder why he wasn't pleased by his death.”
Alec laughed. “Who knows? At the very least, Baskin will bear investigation. For one thing, he was up on the cliffs this afternoon.”
“I rather hope they
will
put you in charge, darling,” Daisy said soberly. “It wouldn't surprise me if the local police don't look beyond Anstruther, after that row in the pub last night.”
“I'll look, love, but however much you like him and his wife, you must admit that Peter Anstruther has to be the top name on my list.”
“I suppose so. You can add a couple of others below him, though. Nancy Enderby, for one. She knew about his carryings-on and wasn't a bit happy about it. And his latest flame was a local farmer's daughter.”
“Name?”
“No idea. You can bet someone in the village will know, though. I wonder if she was the woman I saw looking upset when the Enderbys were quarrelling? But I only had a glimpse and she wasn't in any way distinctive. I doubt I could pick her out if you lined up every female in the district.” At this point they reached the corner of the main
street. Daisy eyed the steep cobbled hill. “I won't come any farther,” she decided.
“You're not to rush back and tell Anstruther he's under suspicion.”
“I wouldn't!”
“I wouldn't put it past you. Do they know Enderby's been found dead?”
“
I
haven't told them, and I told the girls not to mention the ‘accident.' But Baskin may be letting the cat out of the bag right this minute.”
“I asked him to keep quiet about it. There's the lifeboatmen, though. No chance they'll all hold their tongues. It'll be all over town soon, if it's not already. It's a pity we're staying at the Anstruthers'.”
“Do you want to see if we can get rooms at the Schooner? I'd feel like a rat deserting a sinking ship.”
“No, it would probably cause even more talk. We'll stay put. I'll see you later, love.”
“Much later, no doubt,” Daisy said gloomily. “I'll ask Mrs. Anstruther to leave out a cold supper for you, though it's a bit much to be asking favours when you may arrest her husband any minute!”
 
Alec followed Puckle and Vernon up the hill. The boy had caught up with them long before they reached the village. His slight shake of the head Alec had interpreted as meaning that whatever had fixed his attention on the path had come to nothing as a clue for the powerful intellect and meticulous methods of the surrogate Dr. Thorndyke.
He had a nasty feeling he was going to have to contend with meddling from both Daisy and Vernon in this case. As far as the latter was concerned, it was entirely his own fault.
The police station was lit by two ancient and inadequate gas fixtures. By their wavery illumination, Alec saw Vernon seated at the high counter with a pad of paper, a wooden pen, and an inkwell. “I'm writing an official report of my findings, Chief Inspector,” he said grandly.
“I trust your penmanship hasn't yet deteriorated to the level of most medical men.”
“If it's illegible, it's the fault of this damn' pen! Beg your pardon, Mrs. Puckle,” he added with a cheeky grin towards the constable's better half, who was poring over a telegram form with her husband. “One doesn't usually need a fountain pen when playing tennis, but I'll be d—bothered if I've written with one of these horrible things since I was seven or eight.”
“I'm sure Thorndyke would cope admirably with whatever writing implement was put in his hands.”
“By Jove, sir, I believe you're right!” He buckled down to his scratching with renewed enthusiasm.
Alec turned to the Puckles.
“This is the wife, sir. A wire come while I was gone. Show the chief inspector, Martha.”
“'Tis for you, sir, but it don't seem to make much sense. I writ it down just like the exchange said, sir.”
ALL YOURS I DONT WANT TO KNOW CRANE, Alec read. He sighed. “It's confirmation that I'm to take over the case. Thank you, Mrs. Puckle.”
“You'll want a bite to eat, sir, missing your supper at Mrs. Anstruther's, I'll be bound. I've a nice fish pie and some runner beans from the garden.”
“That's very kind of you. A bit later, perhaps, when I've got things sorted out.”
“It'll be waiting when you're ready, sir. Now, Fred, mind your manners and ask the gentleman to sit down.” She trotted off through the door to the living quarters.
Speechless, the constable waved Alec to a seat by the front window and stood uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot. The ladder-back chair looked as if it had had a long, hard life in someone's kitchen before being demoted to constabulary use, but it felt solid enough when Alec sat on it. Hoping its partner on the other
side of the small, square table was equally sturdy, he invited Puckle to be seated.
“When are we to expect reinforcements from Exeter?” he asked.
“Torquay they do be coming from, sir. 'Tis a mortal sight closer. How long—well that depends, sir. Being Sunday, likely they'd have to call someone in. The superintendent said as they'll be motoring down, there being none so many trains and ferries of a Sunday evening.”
“At least we'll have transportation, then.”
“Oh no, sir. The superintendent said the motor-car'll drop them in Abbotsford for the last ferry, and it do have to go back tonight, being needed elsewhere.”
Alec sighed. “All right, let me have your notebook and a pencil and tell me what you know about Enderby's affairs.”
Reluctantly, Puckle handed over his notebook. “I don't like to gossip, sir. It don't do in a small place like Westcombe.”
“Your discretion is commendable, Constable, but misplaced. This is now officially a murder enquiry. Anything you tell me is not gossip but essential background information.”
“Yessir. He first come to Westcombe three years since.” Puckle glanced at the door his wife had gone through, then at the youth industriously scribbling at the big desk, and lowered his voice. “He weren't alone, like. Had a woman with him. Claimed they was brother and sister and took rooms next door to each other with a connecting door.”
“You're sure she wasn't his sister?”
“What I heard was, the chamber-maid said one o' their two beds weren't slept in. Mrs. Hammett come in here and complained, said it shouldn't be allowed, though how she expected me to—”
His story was interrupted by the sound of boots on the cobbles outside. The lifeboatman Bill stuck his head around the door. “Ned and me's brung un up along, sir. What'll us do wi' un?” he enquired.

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