Such Is Death (20 page)

“He just happened to be here,” said Mr Stringer sourly.

“He just happens to be wherever there's a murder,” said the young woman with pride.

Carolus noticed that Doris was alone.

“Where's Vivienne? “he asked.

“Gone to phone her husband,” Doris told him. “She thought he ought to know.”

Doris was sufficiently recovered to have grown talkative.

“What a dreadful thing!” she said. “I shall never get over it, I'm sure. And his face, when he came in, did you ever see anything like it? Well, no wonder when you think of it. Finding her dead like that. It must have been horrible for him. Whoever can have done it, I wonder? Do you think it's the same as did the other one? He said something about a hammer, didn't he? Poor fellow, I do feel sorry for him. And only this evening they'd had one of their set-to's, so he told me. She shouting at him like I don't know what. It doesn't bear thinking about, does it? Vivienne was just as upset as I was, weren't you, Vivienne?”

“Mmmm,” shuddered Vivienne, who had just returned.

“What did they want to take him away for? Mr Lobbin, I mean?”

“I expect they want a statement from him,” said Carolus.

You don't think they'd suppose he had anything to do with it, do you?”

“It depends on the evidence.”

“But he can't have done. He was only gone a couple of minutes.”

“A little more than five. He had the time to do it. That doesn't mean to say he did.”

“I should think not! A nice fellow like Mr Lobbin. He wouldn't hurt a fly. It would have been small wonder if he'd done it long ago, the way she was always on to him. Anyone else might have but not him. He was far too good to her. You don't think they'd go and accuse him of it, do you?”

“Not unless they had very strong evidence of his guilt.”

“That they couldn't have. He was in here all the time. Wasn't he, Vivienne?”

“Mmmm,” said Vivienne with a suggestion of emphasis.

Carolus became aware that at the far end of the room Mr Biggett was standing and holding a glass of beer as though he feared it would be snatched away from him.

“How long has that little stout man been in here? The one by the street door?”

“Him? Oh he came in while you were out just now. He's been holding that glass of bitter ever since.”

Carolus went to him.

“Good-evening,” he said. “This is a break in your routine, isn't it?”

“Not at all,” said Biggett. “On Christmas evening I always allow myself two half-pints of bitter. I have done so for the last twenty-three Christmases.”

“Will you take your evening walk this evening?”

Biggett looked at him in amazement.

“Of course,” he said. “Why not?”

“There has been another murder,” Carolus pointed out.

“So I understand. It has nothing to do with my movements. I shall walk as usual.”

Baulked of his chance to view the body, Carolus made the most of his observations in the bar. He consoled himself by thinking that the police would learn far more from the body than he would and that already their experts were at work, fixing the approximate time of the attack, collecting material for microscopic examination, carrying out their valuable routine scrutiny of the scene. His analyses were rarely based on such things though he was the last to undervalue them. He knew that although by some flash of insight, or from some haphazard sentence spoken by a suspect, he might be able to name the murderer, only the painstaking methods of the police could obtain the evidence needed to convict him. He was as likely to learn something here as from a visit to the room above the shop.

There were strangers in the room who seemed to behave in a somewhat subdued way though they were discussing the incident. Also there was Bodger, standing alone, and Mr and Mrs Bullamy talking together very earnestly. Mr Stringer seemed almost to be enjoying it as he went from group to group saying—“Terrible thing, isn't it? “and “Lucky the Reverend Morsell was here, “and “You'd scarcely think it possible, would you?” Mr Rugley had entered, too, and was now standing quietly near the bar as though watching the interests of his business in this unusual crisis.

Then Carolus thought that in one way this case was unique in that he had stipulated and was to receive a large fee from the Rafter family. He considered that in view of this he would be expected to break the news to them. He decided to call on Bertrand first and then on Mrs Dalbinney, at whose flat he hoped to find both Emma and Paul. He could phone Locksley from one of these homes.

Bertrand opened the door himself and at once asked Carolus to come in.

“I'm delighted to see you,” he said, but there was a
hint of interrogation in his voice, for it was little more than three hours since Carolus had left him.

“I've some news for you,” said Carolus.

“Come on to the fire. I've opened a bottle of Cognac and am delighted to have someone to share it. It's a rather fine old Remy-Martin.”

Yes, Bertrand would be a brandy man, thought Carolus, noting his host's velvet smoking jacket and Turkish slippers. He had noticed at lunch today that Bertrand's sense of quality in things was impeccable. Bertrand had nearly finished the cigar he was smoking and Carolus, who rarely smoked anything but cigars, badly wanted one. At last he pulled out his cigar case, only to find it empty.

“Have one of these,” said Bertrand, though not with much enthusiasm. He opened a silver box of cigars of various kinds and handed it to Carolus. “No, not that. It's only half a cigar. Take one of these. Now what's your news?”

“Another murder,” said Carolus, lighting up. “Lobbin's wife. With a hammer, it seems.”

“Good heavens. When did this happen?”

“I don't know. It was discovered about half an hour ago.” Carolus saw it was nine-thirty. “Yes, just an hour ago.”

“Who discovered it?”

“Lobbin himself.”

“He's not suspected, then?”

“I don't know. But I thought you ought to know about it. No one, after all, can begin talking of your family's motive this time.”

“I see that. But I
am
sorry about it, Deene. She was a tiresome woman, I know, but it's dreadful for the poor fellow.”

Carolus's eye fell on an open calf-bound book.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“Gibbon. I'm not a historian like you, but when my dear Molly leaves me for an hour or two I usually devote the time to the Decline and Fall. Molly doesn't encourage serious reading,” smiled Bertrand.

Carolus did not like leaving that cosy room and the warm electric fire, not to mention the brandy, but he said good-night to Bertrand and set off for Prince Albert Mansions.

This time the door was opened by Paul.

“We rather wondered if you'd come round,” said Paul as he led him to where Mrs Dalbinney and Emma were sitting.

“Really? What made you think I might?

“Mrs Dalbinney answered.

“We are already informed,” she said.

Carolus remembered Vivienne's phone call.

“The hall porter, I suppose?”

“The hall porter came up to tell us that Mrs Lobbin has been murdered in the same brutal way as …”

“No details are known yet,” said Carolus sharply. “Lobbin has merely said that he found his wife dead.”

“Is it true?” asked Emma quickly.

“I don't think Lobbin imagined it, naturally.” Carolus spoke drily. “But at the same time we have very little information. The police are investigating now.”

“She was a dreadful woman,” said Mrs Dalbinney.

“And she has met a dreadful end.”

“We are, of course, very sorry to hear about it, but at the same time it cannot affect us as the previous murder did. Not even the police could find any connection between our family and the murder of a newsagent's wife. You will not need to ask us questions this time, Mr Deene.”

“No. I shan't. I came round to give you this news because I have been acting for you, but, as you suggest, this is a very different matter.”

“Do you think the same person was responsible for both murders?” asked Emma.

“How can I possibly guess? I know nothing of the second murder yet.”

“It was done with a hammer,” Paul pointed out.

“So Lobbin said. He was dazed at the time. I may know a little more later when I have seen the police. But I
don't think we should try to form any conclusions yet.”

“Conclusions, no, but surely you must have some suspicions, Mr Deene?” said Mrs Dalbinney rather harshly. “You are an expert investigator and you have been devoting your time for some days to enquiries about a murder. Now another murder has been committed in the same town and—at least so it would appear—by the same or similar means. Are you without any opinion on these? When are we to hear who is guilty?”

“I am not without suspicions and if the facts are as we believe from Lobbin's remarks, I think there is only one murderer involved. But I'm not prepared to say any more at present.”

“It is most unsatisfactory,” pronounced Mrs Dalbinney. “Our family name …”

“Mrs Dalbinney,” said Carolus with some exasperation. “A woman has been killed and whether or not he was the killer, one man at least is very near insanity this evening, I should judge. I don't think anyone is much concerned with your family or its name. I certainly cannot pretend that I am.”

“You were employed to protect it.”

“I was employed, as you put it, to find out who killed Ernest Rafter, and I have now every hope and intention of doing so.”

“‘Now'? Why ‘now'?”

“Because very often, though it is a tragic truth, the only way to find the facts about one murder is through another one. In this case almost certainly.”

“You mean you had to wait until this wretched woman was battered to death before you could discover who killed Ernest?”

“That is deliberately to misrepresent what I said. But let's not argue about it. I tell you only that
now
I believe I shall very soon know the whole truth. May I use your phone?”

Paul rose and led Carolus to a small room with a lot of books in it. A telephone was on the desk and Carolus
was amused to see a large money-box beside it with a typewritten notice on it: ‘Local Calls 3d. Please Ask Operator Cost of Others.'

He got through to Locksley Rafter at his home in Bawdon.

“Mr Rafter? This is Carolus Deene. I thought you ought to know that there has been another murder here in Selby.”

“Already informed,” the solicitor told him.

“Really? Then I needn't tell you that …”

“No thanks. Good night.”

Carolus thoughtfully put a florin in the collecting-box and went back to Mrs Dalbinney.

“I didn't know you had telephoned your brother,” he said.

“Of course. Immediately. He is not only my brother but my solicitor.”

“Was he surprised at the news?”

“Not in the least. He has always suspected Lobbin.”

“Ah yes. I remember he told me in that expansive way of his.”

“My brother does not waste time or words,” said Mrs Dalbinney.

“Or money, I hope,” added Carolus impertinently.

“Certainly not.”

“One other thing I would like to ask. Your brother Bertrand's secretary lives in this building, I believe.”

This produced tension. Paul looked as though he wanted to laugh and Emma kept her eyes down.

“Or her parents do,” amended Carolus. “Could you tell me the number?”

Mrs Dalbinney spoke as though she disliked doing so.

“Do you know, Emma?”

“The second floor. Number 29,” said Emma.

“Thank you.”

Carolus realized that all three were looking at him inquisitively, wanting more information.

“I'll just look in,” he said. “Her parents' name is French, I take it?”

This time Mrs Dalbinney was openly pained by the necessity to give information.

“Chigby,” she said. “Mr and Mrs Chigby. French is the daughter's married name.”

“I see. Thank you. Good-night,” said Carolus.

The third and last door at which Carolus rang that night was not opened for several minutes. Then Molly French, wearing a coat and hat, appealed and said—“Darl … Oh, it's you. I was expecting Bertrand to call for me.”

“Disappointing for you,” said Carolus, then told her about the murder.

“I expect he's upset,” said Molly, “that's why he didn't come. He should have been here at nine. My father and mother won't have the phone. Will you be an angel and run me back?”

“I'll certainly run you back,” said Carolus, “though I can't promise to be an angel.”

On that piece of fatuity they went downstairs and got in the car.

W
HEN
Carolus reached John Moore's office later that night he found John looking over-worked but alert, kept going by a strong brew of police-station tea. Carolus had known his friend to work through the night and was not surprised that he should be prepared to do so today.

“Thank heavens the wife hasn't joined me in Selby yet,” he said, “she'd raise hell with me for keeping at it during Christmas. But what can I do? The preliminary reports are still coming in.”

“Yes. It was an awkwardly timed murder from your point of view.”

“You said you'd got something to report, Carolus. Do you mean that, or is it one of your fly-by-night theories?”

“I've certainly got no theory to put to you,” said Carolus,
“and I don't know how much use to you my little bits of information may be. But I'm quite willing to give you them.”

“Go ahead, then.”

“I was in the bar of the Queen Victoria when Lobbin came in at exactly 8.27 as I noticed. He had left the bar a few minutes earlier to go home and see his wife with whom he had quarrelled more violently than usual that evening. He was gone five to seven minutes by my reckoning.”