The Moving Toyshop (7 page)

“Why?”

“You agree that the person who knocked you on the head was probably the murderer?”

“Yes, Socrates.”

Fen glared malignantly and drank some whisky. “And in that case he got a good look at you?”

“All right, all right.”

“Well now, suppose Mr. Rosseter is the murderer. He recognizes you when you come into his office, he knows you’ve seen the body, and he’s horrified to hear you inquiring about an aunt of the murdered woman and about the murdered woman herself. So what does he do? He gives a detailed account of the provisions of the will, which we can check, and then—then, mark you—says he’s had no communication from Miss Tardy,
knowing 
that after what you’ve seen you simply won’t believe him.
Ergo, 
he didn’t recognize you.
Ergo, 
he didn’t knock you on the head.
Ergo, 
he wasn’t the murderer.”

“That’s rather clever,” said Cadogan grudgingly.

“It isn’t clever at all,” Fen groaned. “It leaks at every joint, like an Emmett railway engine. In the first place, we don’t know that the person who hit you was the murderer; and in the second, all that stuff about the will may be mere hooey. There are other staring gaps, too. It’s possible Miss Tardy wasn’t killed in the toyshop at all. But in that case, why take her body there,
and then take it away again?
The whole thing’s quite topsy-turvy, and we simply don’t know enough to form an opinion.”

Cadogan’s admiration waned somewhat. He regarded gloomily a group of newcomers to the bar as he emptied his pint glass. “What can we do now, anyway?”

Possible courses of action, when discussed, resolved themselves into four:

1. Attempt to trace the body (impossible).
   
2. Interview Mr. Rosseter again (dubious).
   
3. Get some further information about Miss Alice Winkworth, proprietress of Winkworth, Family Grocer and Provisioner (possible).
   
4. Ring up a friend of Fen’s at Somerset House and check on the details of Miss Snaith’s will (practicable and necessary).
   

“But as far as I’m concerned,” Cadogan added, “I’m going off to the police. I’m sick of rushing about, and my head still aches like a thousand devils.”

“Well, you can wait a minute till I’ve finished my whisky,” said Fen. “I’m not going to make myself sick just because of your miserable, nagging conscience.”

They had been talking in low tones, and he was relieved at being able to raise his voice. Also he had consumed a comfortable amount of whisky. His ruddy, cheerful face grew ruddier and more cheerful; his hair stood up with unquenchable vitality; he fidgeted his long, lanky form about in his chair, shuffled his feet, and beamed on the dark, supercilious features, now particularly dejected, of Richard Cadogan.

“…and then the public schools,” the young man with red hair was piping. The peruser of 
Nightmare Abbey 
looked up wearily at the mention of this hoary topic; the hook-nosed person at the bar continued to talk uninterruptedly about horses. “The public schools produce a brutal, privileged, ruling-class mentality.”

“But didn’t you go to one yourself?”

“Yes. But, you see, I shook it off.”

“Don’t the others, then?”

“Oh, no, they have it for life. It’s only the exceptional people who shake it off.”

“I see.”

“The fact is, the whole economic life of the nation has got to be reorganized…”

“Now, don’t you worry about the proctors,” Mr. Hoskins was soothing his companion. “There’s nothing to fear. Let’s both have another chocolate.”

“We might as well play a game while we’re waiting,” said Fen, who still had a good deal of whisky left in his glass. “Detestable Characters in Fiction. Both players must agree, and each player has five seconds in which to think of a character. If he can’t, he misses his turn. The first player to miss his turn three times loses. They must be characters the author intended to be sympathetic.”

Cadogan grunted, and at this point a University proctor entered the bar. The proctors are appointed from the dons in rotation, and go about accompanied by small, thick-set men in blue suits and bowler hats, who are known as bullers. Members of the University
in statu pupillari 
are not allowed on licensed premises, and so their main occupation is to process dismally from bar to bar, asking people if they are members of the University, taking the names of those who are, and subsequently fining them. Not much obloquy or enthusiasm is attached to this procedure.

“Gosh!” said dark-haired Miriam in a small voice.

The self-elected reorganizer of the nation’s finances blenched horribly.

Mr. Hoskins blinked.

The young man with glasses retired deeper into
Nightmare Abbey.

The hook-nosed person, on being nudged by the barman, stopped talking about horses.

Only Fen was unmoved. “Are you a member of this University?” he shouted cheerfully to the proctor. “Hey, Whiskers! Are you a member of this University?”

The proctor started. He was (as dons go) a youngish man who had grown a pair of large cavalry moustaches during the Great War, and had never had the heart to cut them off. He gazed glassily about the room, carefully avoiding Fen’s eye, and then went out.

“Oooh!” said Miriam, expelling a long sigh of relief.

“He didn’t recognize you, did he?” said Mr. Hoskins. “Here, have another chocolate.”

“You see?” said the red-haired youth indignantly. “Even the capitalist universities are run on a terror basis.” With a trembling hand, he lifted his half-pint of ale.

“Well, let’s get on with the game,” said Fen. “Ready, steady, go.”

“Those awful gabblers, Beatrice and Benedick.”

“Yes. Lady Chatterley and that gamekeeper fellow.”

“Yes. Britomart in
The Faery Queen.”

“Yes. Almost everyone in Dostoevsky.”

“Yes. Er—er—”

“Got you!” said Fen triumphantly. “You miss your turn. Those vulgar little man-hunting minxes in
Pride and Prejudice.”

At this exultant shout the muffled, rabbity man at the nearby table frowned, got unsteadily to his feet, and came over to them.

“Sir,” he said, interrupting Cadogan’s offering of Richard Feverel, “surely I did not hear you speaking disrespectfully of the immortal Jane?”

“The Leech-Gatherer,” said Fen, making a feeble attempt to carry on. Then he abandoned it and addressed the newcomer. “Look here, my dear fellow, you’re a bit under the weather, aren’t you?”

“I am perfectly sober, thank you. Thank you very much.” The rabbity man fetched his drink, drew up his chair, and settled down beside them. He raised one hand and closed his eyes as though in pain. “Do not, I beg of you, speak disrespectfully of Miss Austen. I have read all of her novels many, many times. Their gentleness, their breath of a superior and beautiful culture, their acute psychological insight—” He paused, speechless, and emptied his glass at a gulp.

He had a weak, thin face, with rodent teeth, red-rimmed eyes, pale, straggling eyebrows, and a low forehead. Despite the warmth of the morning, he was dressed in the most extraordinary fashion, with fur gloves, two scarves, and (apparently) several overcoats.

Sensing Cadogan’s startled inventory: “I am very sensitive to cold, sir,” said the rabbity man with an attempt at dignity, “And the autumn chill—” He paused, groped for a handkerchief and blew his nose with a trumpeting noise. “I hope—I
hope
that you do not object, gentlemen, to my joining you?”

“Yes, we do,” said Fen, irritated.

“Don’t be unkind, I beg of you,” said the rabbity man beseechingly. “This morning I am so very, very happy. Allow me to give you a drink. I have plenty of money… Waiter?” The waiter appeared at their table. “Two large whiskies and a pint of bitter.”

“Look here, Gervase, I really ought to be going,” Cadogan put in uneasily.

“Don’t go, sir. Stay and rejoice with me.” There was no doubt that the rabbity man was very drunk indeed. He leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “This morning I got rid of my boys.”

“Ah,” said Fen without amusement “And what did you do with the little bodies?”

The rabbity man giggled “Ah! you’re trying to catch me out. My schoolboys, I mean. I am—I
was
a schoolmaster. A poor birchman. The specific gravity of mercury is 13.6,” he chanted.
“Cæsar galliam in tres partes divisit.
 The past participle of
mourir
is
mort.”

Fen gazed at him with distaste. The waiter brought their drinks and the rabbity man paid for them out of a rather grubby wallet, adding a huge tip.

“Your health, gentlemen,” he said, raising his glass. Then he paused. “But I haven’t introduced myself. George Sharman, at your service.” He bowed low from the waist, and nearly sent his drink flying; Cadogan saved it just in time.

“At this moment,” said Mr. Sharman meditatively, “I should be teaching the Lower Fourth the elements of Latin Prose Composition. And shall I tell you why I’m not?” Again he leaned forward. “Last night, gentlemen, I came into a large sum of money.”

Cadogan jumped and Fen’s eyes hardened Legacies seemed to be in the air that morning.

“A ver’ large sum of money,” Mr. Sharman pursued indistinctly. “So what do I do? I go to the headmaster and I say, ‘Spavin,’ I say, ‘you’re a domineering old sot, and I’m not going to work for you
any
more. I’m a gentleman of independent means now,’ I said, ‘and I’m going to get some of the chalk out of my veins.’” He beamed complacently about him.

“Congratulations,” said Fen with dangerous amiability. “Congratulations.”

“An’ thass not all.” Mr. Sharman’s utterance was becoming progressively more clouded. “I’m not the on’y lucky one. Oh, no. There’re others.” He gestured broadly. “Lots ‘n lots of others, all as rich as Croesus. An’ one of them’s a beautiful girl, with the bluest azure eyes. My luve is like a blue, blue rose,” he sang in a cracked voice. “I sh’ll ask her to marry me, though she is only a shop-girl. Only a shop-girl’s daughter.” He turned earnestly to Cadogan. “You mus’ meet her.”

“I should like to very much.”

“That’s the way,” said Mr. Sharman with approval He trumpeted again into his handkerchief.

“Have another drink with me, old man,” said Fen, adopting an attitude of bibulous comradeship and slapping Mr. Sharman on the back.

Mr. Sharman hiccupped. “’S on me,” he said. “Waiter…!”

They all had another drink.

“Ah,” said Fen, sighing deeply. “you’re a lucky man, Mr. Sharman. I wish a relative would die and leave me a lot of money.”

But Mr. Sharman waggled his finger. “Don’ try to pump me. I’m not telling anything, see? I’m keeping my mouth shut.” He shut his mouth, illustratively, and then opened it again to admit more whisky. “I’m surprised,” he added in a tearful voice. “After all I’ve done for you. Tryin’ to pump me.”

“No, no…”

A change came over Mr. Sharman’s face. His voice grew weaker, and he clutched at his stomach. “’Scuse me, gen’lmen,” he said. “Back in a moment.” He got to his feet, stood swaying like a grass in the wind, and then tottered unsteadily in the direction of the lavatories.

“We shan’t get much out of him,” said Fen gloomily. “When a man doesn’t want to tell something, drunkenness only makes him more obstinate and suspicious. But it’s a queer coincidence.”

“‘The owl,
’
”
Cadogan quoted, looking after Mr. Sharman’s weedy, muffled form,
“‘for all his feathers was a-cold.’”

“Yes,” Fen said. “Like the old person of—
Oh, my fur and whiskers.”

“What in God’s name is the matter?” Cadogan asked in alarm.

Fen got hastily to his feet. “Keep that man here,” he said with emphasis, “until I get back. Ply him with whisky. Talk to him about Jane Austen. But don’t let him go.”

“But look here, I was going to the police…”

“Don’t be so spiritless, Richard. This is a clue. I haven’t the least idea where it will lead, but so help me, it’s a clue. Don’t go away. I shan’t be long.” And Fen strode out of the bar.

Mr. Sharman returned to his seat both more sober and more wary than he had been.

“Your friend gone?” he asked.

“Only for a short while.”

“Ah.” Mr. Sharman stretched himself luxuriously. “Glorious freedom. You’ve no idea what it is to be a schoolmaster. I’ve watched strong men go to pieces under it. It’s a perpetual war. You can keep the boys off for maybe thirty years, but they get you in the end.”

“It sounds terrible.”

“It is terrible. You get older, but they’re always the same age. Like the emperor and the crowd in the Forum.”

Then they talked about Jane Austen, a subject made difficult for Cadogan by his imperfect knowledge of that author. Mr. Sharman, however, made up for this deficiency in both knowledge and enthusiasm. Cadogan felt his dislike for the man increasing—dislike for his bleary little eyes, his projecting front teeth, his pedagogue’s assumption of culture; unquestionably Mr. Sharman was an unpleasant illustration of the effects of a powerful greed suddenly satisfied. He did not refer again to his inheritance, or to the ‘others’ who shared it with him, but perorated resolutely on
Mansfield Park.
Cadogan made monosyllabic replies, and considered with a certain impatience the curious behaviour of Gervase Fen. As it grew nearer lunchtime the bar filled up with hotel visitors, actors, under­graduates. The noise of chatter rose in volume, and the sunlight pouring through the Gothic windows cut the haze of cigarette smoke into pale-blue triangles. “The only solution, I think,” said someone suddenly and with conviction, “is liquid soap.” Solution to what? Cadogan vaguely wondered.

“And then look at the character of Mr. Collins,” Mr. Sharman was remarking. With reluctance Cadogan focused his attention on this personage.

At five minutes to midday there was a loud roar outside, accompanied by a clattering like saucepans at war. A moment later Fen pushed through the swing doors of the hotel to the sound of a sharp detonation. He was greatly exuberant, and carried a brightly jacketed book which he regarded with affection. Ignoring the bar on his left, he went on into the hotel proper, down a blue-carpeted corridor towards the porter’s box. Ridley, the porter, resplendent in blue and braid, greeted him with a certain apprehension, but he only entered one of the nearby telephone boxes. There he put through a call to Somerset House.