Give a Corpse a Bad Name (4 page)

Some men round the skittles board had begun to get drunk and were being amusing. One, who wore a crimson shirt, a swarthy fellow with sleek, dark hair and a flashing smile, was actually tap-dancing. Two farmers, the sexton, a purple-faced auctioneer and the pouchy-eyed, plus-four-clad veterinary surgeon were watching with grinning interest and admiration.

Anna Milne's tight lips relaxed as she watched. From behind the bar Tom Warren leant forward and whispered: ‘The little feller in blue kept beatin' him at skittles, although he'd all sorts of fancy tricks with the ball, and kept complainin' about its weight and all that. I reckon he's started dancin' to show there's somethin' he can do better.'

The group round the skittles board was cheering the dancer. Suddenly he stopped, said: ‘Show you how to tap-dance,' and repeated the performance.

Anna Milne looked round at Adrian.

‘Lots of atmosphere for you tonight,' she remarked.

Something sardonic appeared on his bland, oval face. ‘Which is the worse, Anna, a self-conscious hunt for atmosphere, or a pretence that the atmosphere's natural to you, a pretence that you belong to it?'

She jerked her head away, as if his breath had tickled her.

Out in the middle of the red linoleum the feet of the dancer were drumming a rhythm like the keys of a typewriter. He flung his arms around him in florid gestures. One of the farmers began to sing a song that had been dance-music when he was young; it pinned itself saggingly to the brisk clatter of the dancing feet. The purple-faced auctioneer clapped his hand on the shoulder of the little man in blue. ‘Can you do that?' he asked.

The little man came forward dubiously.

The little man's feet began to move delicately. His companion in the red shirt stepped back and leant against the bar. The little man made a few inconspicuous movements, a sudden loud clatter with his heels, flung up a hand and struck the side of his head, stood erect and smiled chubbily. There was a burst of applause.

‘Wit, that's what does it,' said Adrian Laws enthusiastically.

Red-shirt turned away and groaned.

It was some time before the little man was allowed to stop his dancing. Repetition after repetition was demanded from him, not variations, not originality, but simply that one flash of humour over and over again. At last the auctioneer gave him another clap on the shoulder.

‘Where did you learn that?' he inquired.

‘Old sailor-man,' was the mumbled answer.

‘Where d'you come from?' the auctioneer continued.

‘Yes, where d'you come from?' asked one of the farmers. ‘You bain't English, be 'e?'

‘Never see an Englishman do that,' said the auctioneer.

‘No, never see an Englishman do that,' said the farmer.

The little man looked from one to the other. He seemed slow at understanding. The sexton prompted him: ‘You bain't a Turk, be 'e?'

There was a howl of laughter. The auctioneer said: ‘You're American, aren't you? Or Danish—that's what you look like. Or Norwegian. Something like that.'

Red-shirt observed drearily: ‘You've got him all wrong. He's a Jap.'

In the midst of more laughter the little man answered slowly: ‘Ever heard of a little place called Princetown, about a dozen miles from a little place called Chovey? There's a prison there. That's where I come from.'

Nobody believed him, not even Sergeant Eggbear who came in at that moment.

The first thing the sergeant did on entering the bar that Wednesday evening was to walk to the wireless and switch it on. His action let into the room a rich, deep voice that announced gravely:

‘ “Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft:
Seek not my name: a plague consume you wicked caitiffs left! …” '

Then, with good evenings left and right, the sergeant advanced to the bar and ordered a pint of bitter. Just as the wireless was telling the room to ‘ “Pass by, and curse thy fill …” ' he looked round and noticed who it was that was standing beside him.

It was the dark-haired man in the red shirt.

‘Toby Dyke!'

‘ “Dead is noble Timon,” ' said the wireless.

The man in the red shirt said: ‘Hullo, Sammy, nice to see you again,' and looked as if he were going to burst into tears.

‘Toby Dyke,' said the sergeant, reaching out both hands to grasp one of the other man's limp ones and shake it vigorously. ‘I've always said, one day sooner or later, Toby Dyke'll turn up here again. Haven't I, Tom?'

Tom Warren nodded and the wireless said: ‘ “Let our drums strike,” ' and then was silent.

In the bar there was a shifting of places, an ordering of drinks. Major Maxwell took a cigarette-case out of his pocket and offered it to his two companions. But Mrs Milne was taking a mirror out of her bag, staring into it and frowning, and Adrian Laws was taking a long look at the man called Toby Dyke and at Sergeant Eggbear.

These two were being looked at by most of the people in the room. Only the small man in the blue jersey had drifted away from the crowd to pick up a handful of darts and start throwing them with an undemonstrative style but with spectacular accuracy at the board in the corner.

‘This,' the wireless resumed, ‘is the late news—Exchange Telegraph, Reuter, Central News, copyright reserved. First there is a police message. Will anyone able to give information leading to the identification of a middle-aged man who was run over by a car and fatally injured on the road between Chovey and Purbrook—?'

Mrs Milne's hands lay still in her lap. A moment ago her fingers had been twisting round the handle of her small mesh bag, but now they lay quite still. Suddenly she got to her feet.

‘That's enough of that,' she said, and twitching her fur coat closely round her, walked quickly to the door.

Stuart Maxwell followed her immediately. In the doorway he paused for a moment to turn and meet the eyes of Sergeant Eggbear, who appeared, like several others, to have been startled by this abrupt withdrawal. The wireless was continuing with a description of the clothes of the man who had been run over the night before, and asking anyone who might have information to give to communicate with the chief constable of the county. The major looked at the sergeant with an expression on his face that no one there had ever seen before. Anger can make a face, even one that has been disciplined by the British army, burn with an astonishing, a blazing, cruel vitality.

The major went out. Adrian Laws swivelled round on his high, varnished stool and murmured: ‘Now you wouldn't call that tactful, would you, sergeant?'

The sergeant started drumming with his large hand on the bar.

‘Not a nice look, was it?' said Toby Dyke. ‘What've you done, Sam?'

The sergeant muttered and swore.

Adrian Laws said: ‘Rubbed a very sore place.' He had edged himself into the group with the sergeant and the stranger. ‘Last night, you see, our Mrs Milne knocked a man down with her car and killed him. Tonight the sergeant goes and switches on the wireless so that she can hear her error being made public to the world. She didn't like it.'

‘Did you do it on purpose, Sam?' said Toby Dyke.

‘What, me?' said the sergeant. ‘I didn't even see her!'

‘Just wanted to listen in to the sort of mess a BBC announcer would make of pronouncing a couple of names like Chovey and Purbrook?' Toby Dyke patted him on the shoulder. ‘Does make you feel right at the centre of things, doesn't it?' Across the sergeant's darkened face he winked at Adrian Laws.

‘I say, Sergeant,' said Adrian, ‘won't you introduce me to your friend? I've heard such a lot about him from you; I've always hoped I'd come across him some time.'

‘And that reminds me,' said Toby Dyke, ‘I've got a friend to introduce. George!'

But as George turned round, a bunch of darts in his fist and a look of shyness on his face, a constable appeared in the doorway and started chirruping from there to the sergeant. Eggbear walked across to him.

‘'Tis a call come in for you,' said the constable, ‘about the accident. There's a woman in to Wallaford says she heard the message on the wireless and she phoned up to once. They've put her through to us. She says a man answering to the description given stayed at her house last night. She runs a boarding-house in Francis Street.'

‘And can she tell us who he was?'

‘We-ell,” the constable hesitated. ‘She's got his name. Or so she says. And maybe 'tis nought but a coincidence like. But still, strikes me as—'

‘Get on with it,' said the sergeant, ‘get on with it!'

The constable took a look past him at the people in the room. Some were going on with their talk, their drinks or their skittles, but a few, Toby Dyke for one, and Adrian Laws and George were frankly listening. Besides, in all that talk, that drinking and playing, there was something, some unnaturalness. The intentness of curiosity was on nearly every face.

The constable tweaked the sergeant's sleeve and drew him outside.

In the police station the sergeant sat looking at the notes he had taken of his conversation over the telephone with the police sergeant in Wallaford.

‘Well,' he said, ‘I reckon Maxwell ain't such an out of the common name as all that. Maybe, as you say, 'tis just a coincidence like.'

He tapped his teeth with his pencil.

From over his shoulder the long arm of Toby Dyke reached down and tweaked away the sheet of notes. It had happened that at the moment when the constable drew Sergeant Eggbear out of the bar Tom Warren turned down the lights and started talking about time. So Toby had followed the sergeant. Reluctantly, and keeping a yard or two behind, George had followed Toby. George now sat on a chair by the stove, his cap on his knees, his manner embarrassed, as if he felt that everyone was looking at him.

The sergeant's notes were unintelligible. Toby gave them back to him.

‘What's it all about, Sam?'

Before answering the question the sergeant asked: ‘You still a newspaper reporter, Toby, like you were when we first met?'

‘Why?'

‘Are you or ain't you?'

‘I'm not. Living by my wits—and George's. Why?'

The sergeant gazed ahead of him with a heavy stare. ‘Bein' the way it is,' he said slowly, ‘I reckon us don't want this in the papers—yet.' He turned his stare up at the narrow, hook-nosed face. ‘There's some men,' he said, ‘you can't trust not to put their jobs before everythin' else.'

Toby Dyke grinned. ‘Well, get on with it. I've told you it isn't my job any more.'

‘Then 'tis this way,' said the sergeant. ‘Last night Mrs Milne, the lady you see in to the Ring o' Bells, she runs over a man and kills'n. Comes straight here and tells us about it. She don't know who 'tis, and none of us don't recognize'n. You heard on the wireless what kind o' man he was. He was drunk and his clothes weren't none too good and he'd just sixpence-ha'penny on him. His face was nought to go upon—'twasn't there, for the most part. But there was a bit o' paper in his pocket, stuck away in a corner like, a check for somethin' he'd bought. Cape Town was where that came from. Well, Mrs Milne's a South African lady—and there's her name and address written on the back o' this check. But she goes on sayin' as she never seen nor heard of'n. Well, then, I get that announcement on the wireless …'

‘And your answer comes in right away.' Toby Dyke sat down on a corner of the table. ‘Bit of luck,' he remarked, but he made it sound like a question.

‘Aye,' said the sergeant, also doubtfully.

On his chair by the stove George made a little coughing sound, as if he wished to draw attention to something he intended to say.

But before he had begun it the sergeant was continuing: ‘A woman in to Wallaford, a Mrs Quantick by name, as keeps a boardin'-house in Francis Street—that ain't one o' the best streets—her phones up to say that on Monday night a man answering to the description on the wireless occupied one o' the rooms in her house. He left in the mornin', carryin' a suitcase.'

The constable put in: ‘Where's the suitcase to now, then?'

‘How do I know?' snapped Eggbear. ‘How do I know if 'tis the same man? We'll be fetchin' Mrs Quantick over tomorrow to see if her can identify him. Till then … But still,' he added, ‘this is what she tells us. When he went off with his suitcase—'twas a leather suitcase, with initials stamped on it—when he went off he left a coat behind as he forgot to pack, seemingly. 'Tis hangin' in the cupboard on a hanger, and in the pocket, her says, there's some papers and a handkerchief and a passport. And the passport's the property of one Shelley Maxwell.' He broke off and looked up again at Toby Dyke. ‘Plenty of people in the world called Maxwell.'

‘But there can't be many people who'd put Shelley in front of it,' said Toby. ‘Go on, Sam, who is it you don't want it to be? I'm not up in your local politics.'

‘Did you see that man in the bar, Toby, that gave me that look?'

Toby nodded.

‘Well, that's Major Stuart Maxwell, and he's the brother of Sir Joseph Maxwell, and Sir Joseph Maxwell's the owner of Chovey Place, and I'm just thinkin' …'

‘I can guess the sort of thing you're thinking, Sam. But where does Shelley come in?'

The sergeant sighed. ‘Maxwells ain't a local family,' he said, ‘I don't know everything about'n. 'Tis round twenty year or so back that Sir Joseph bought the Place. In those days there was a son. He wasn't here much o' the time; he was in some kind of a job up to London—Sir Joseph'd never be one to let a son idle, no matter how much money there was. He'd be down for a weekend now and then, or sometimes longer. A wild one he was; he was a daddy for the girls and liked to go on the tiddly. More than once there was stories of the trouble he had with his father. And then, all to once, he stopped comin'. Vanished. Lots o' people asked questions. There was some stories too …' He hesitated. ‘I always allowed as he'd had a big row with his old man over somethin' and got thrown out.'