The Monogram Murders (16 page)

Now that the bespectacled man had gone on his

way, there was not a sound to be heard apart from the

occasional bird and my own breathing. Beyond the

houses I saw empty fields and hills in the distance

that, combined with the silence, made me feel

immediately lonely. Cities, of course, can also make a

person feel alone. In London, you look at those who

pass you by and you have no idea what is going on in

their minds. Each one looks utterly closed to you and

mysterious. In villages the same rule applies, except

that you suspect it is the same thing going on in every

mind.

The owner of the King’s Head turned out to be a

Mr. Victor Meakin, who looked to be between fifty

and sixty and had thin gray hair through which the tops

of his ears poked pinkly on both sides. He too seemed

eager to discuss London. “Were you born there, if you

don’t mind my asking, Mr. Catchpool? How many

people live there now? What’s the size of the

population? Is it very dirty there? My aunt went there

once—said it was very dirty. Still, I’ve always

thought I’d like to go one day. I never said so to my

aunt, though—I’d have had an argument from her, God

rest her soul. Does everybody in London have a car of

their own?”

I was relieved that his stream of chatter allowed

me no time to answer. My luck ran out when he got to

the question that really interested him: “What brings

you to Great Holling, Mr. Catchpool? I can’t think

what business you might have here.”

At that point he stopped, and I had no choice but to

answer. “I’m a policeman,” I told him. “From

Scotland Yard.”

“Policeman?” He maintained a determined smile,

but he looked at me now with very different eyes:

hard, probing and disdainful—as if he was

speculating about me and drawing conclusions that

were to my disadvantage. “A policeman,” he said,

more to himself than me. “Now, why would a

policeman be here? An important policeman from

London, too.” Since he seemed not to be asking me

directly, I neglected to reply.

As he carried my cases up the winding wooden

stairs, he stopped three times and turned to peer at me

for no discernible reason.

The room he had allocated to me was agreeably

sparse and chilly—a welcome change from Blanche

Unsworth’s frilly, fringed extravagance. Here,

thankfully, no hot water bottle with a knitted cover

had been laid out for my use. I can’t bear the things;

even the sight of them irks me. The warmest thing in

any bed should always be a person, in my opinion.

Meakin pointed out some features of the room that

I might have spotted myself, such as the bed and the

large wooden cupboard. I tried to respond with the

appropriate mixture of surprise and delight. Then,

because I knew I would have to do so at some point, I

told him the nature of my business in Great Holling,

hoping this would satisfy his curiosity and allow him

to look at me henceforth in a less penetrating way. I

told him about the Bloxham Hotel murders.

His mouth twitched as he listened. It looked rather

as if he was trying not to laugh, though I might have

been mistaken. “Murdered, you say? In a fancy

London hotel? Now, there’s a thing! Mrs. Sippel and

Miss Gransbury, murdered? And Mr. Negus?”

“You knew them, then?” I said, removing my coat

and hanging it up in the cupboard.

“Oh, yes, I knew them.”

“They weren’t friends of yours, I take it?”

“Weren’t friends, weren’t enemies,” said Meakin.

“That’s the best way, when you’ve got an inn to run.

Friends and enemies gets you into trouble. Looks like

it got Mrs. Sippel and Miss Gransbury into trouble.

Mr. Negus too.”

What was it that I could hear in his voice—that

strange emphasis? Was it relish?

“Forgive me, Mr. Meakin, but . . . does it please

you to learn of these three deaths, or am I imagining

it?”

“You are, Mr. Catchpool. Indeed you are.” He

delivered the denial with utmost confidence.

We stared at one another for a moment or two. I

saw eyes that gleamed with suspicion, devoid now of

all warmth.

“You told me some news and I took an interest, is

all I did,” said Meakin. “Just as I’d take an interest in

the tellings of any visitor. It’s only right and proper,

when you’ve got an inn to run. Fancy that, though—

murder!”

I turned away from him and said firmly, “Thank

you for showing me to my room. You’ve been very

helpful.”

“I expect you’ll want to ask me a fair share of

questions, won’t you? The King’s Head’s been mine

since 1911. You’ll find no one better to ask.”

“Oh—yes, of course. Once I’ve unpacked and

eaten, stretched my legs a little.” I didn’t relish the

prospect of speaking to this man at length, but it was

going to be necessary. “One more thing, Mr. Meakin,

and it’s very important: if you would be kind enough

not to pass on what I’ve told you to anyone else, I’d

be grateful.”

“Secret, is it?”

“Not at all, no. It’s simply that I would rather tell

people myself.”

“You’ll be asking questions, will you? There’s not

a body in Great Holling who’ll tell you anything

worth knowing.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said. “You’ve already

offered to talk to me, after all.”

Meakin shook his head. “I don’t believe I have,

Mr. Catchpool. I said you’ll be wanting to ask me, not

that I’d be wanting to answer. I will say this, though

. . .” He pointed a bony, swollen-knuckled index

finger at me. “If you’ve stumbled upon three murders

in your fancy London hotel, and keeping in mind that

you’re a London policeman, you’d be better off asking

your questions there and not here.”

“Are you insinuating that you would like me to

leave, Mr. Meakin?”

“Not at all. Your itinerary is entirely your own

affair. You’ll be welcome at this establishment for as

long as you choose to remain. It’s no concern of

mine.” With that, he turned and left.

I shook my head in puzzlement. It was hard to

reconcile Victor Meakin as he was now with the man

who had greeted me when I first walked into the

King’s Head, who had babbled away merrily about

London and his dirt-averse aunt.

I sat down on the bed, then immediately stood up,

feeling the need of fresh air. If only there had been

somewhere to stay in Great Holling apart from the

King’s Head.

I put on the coat I had taken off a few minutes

earlier, locked my room and descended the stairs.

Victor Meakin was drying beer glasses behind the

bar. He bowed as I entered the room.

In the corner, on either side of a table that was

covered with glasses both full and empty, sat two men

who were intent upon becoming as intoxicated as

possible. Both had perfected the art of swaying while

seated. One of these determined drinkers was a

decrepit old gnome of a chap with a white beard that

brought to mind Father Christmas. The other was well

built and square jawed and could not have been older

than twenty. He was trying to speak to the old man,

but his mouth was too slack from the liquor and he

couldn’t make himself understood. Fortunately, his

drinking companion was in no fit state to listen, so it

was perhaps lucky that it was unintelligible nonsense

that was going to waste and not the finest repartee.

The sight of the young man disturbed me. How had

he ended up at such a low ebb? He looked as if he

was trying on a face that, if he didn’t change his

habits, he would soon be doomed to wear for ever.

“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Catchpool?”

Meakin asked.

“Perhaps later, thank you.” I smiled warmly. I try

to make a point of being as good humored as I can

with those I dislike or don’t trust. It doesn’t always

work, but sometimes they respond in kind. “First, time

to stretch the old legs.”

The inebriated young man rose unsteadily to his

feet. He seemed suddenly angry and said something

that began with the word “No.” The rest was

unintelligible. He staggered past me and out onto the

street. The old man raised his arm—a process that

took him nearly ten seconds—until his finger was

pointing straight at me. “You,” he said.

I had been in the village of Great Holling for less

than an hour, and already two men had pointed rudely

straight at my face. Perhaps among the local folk this

was a sign of welcome, though I doubted it. “I beg

your pardon?” I said.

Father Christmas made sounds that I translated as:

“Yes, you, good fellow. Come and sit down here. In

this chair here. Next to me, here. The chair that the

unfortunate young ne’er-do-well no longer has the

need of, here.”

Under normal circumstances the repetition might

have grated, but since I was engaged in a translation

exercise, I rather welcomed it.

“Actually, I was about to take a stroll around the

village . . .” I started to say, but the old man had made

his mind up that I should do no such thing.

“There’s plenty of time for that later!” he barked.

“Now, you’ll come and sit down, and we’ll have

ourselves a talk.” To my alarm, he began to sing:

“Come and sit down,

Come and sit down,

Mr. Policeman from London Town.”

I looked at Meakin, who kept his eyes on his beer

glasses. Anger emboldened me and I said to him, “I

seem to remember asking you only ten minutes ago not

to discuss my business with anybody.”

“I haven’t said a word.” He did not even have the

good grace to look at me.

“Mr. Meakin, how has this gentleman found out

that I’m a policeman from London if not from your

telling him? Nobody else in the village knows who I

am.”

“You mustn’t go leaping to conclusions, Mr.

Catchpool. That’ll get you nowhere, I expect. I’ve

said not a word about you to a single body. Not a

word.”

He was lying. He knew that I knew, and he didn’t

care.

DEFEATED, I WENT AND sat with the old gnome-like man

in his corner of the inn. There were hops and brasses

on the dark beams all around him, and for a second he

struck me as a strange white-haired creature in an

even stranger nest.

He started to talk as if our conversation were

already in full swing: “. . . not a gentleman but a

ne’er-do-well, and his parents are the same way.

They can’t read, or write their own names, and nor

can he. No Latin to speak of! Twenty years of age and

look at him! When I was his age—ah, but that was

long ago. Time immemorial! I made the best of myself

as a young man, but some take the blessings the Lord

bestowed and squander them all. They don’t realize

that greatness is within the grasp of every man, so

they don’t try to achieve it.”

“Latin, eh?” was all I could manage by way of

reply. Greatness? I counted myself as lucky every

time I avoided a humiliating failure. There was

nothing coarse about the old man’s voice, in spite of

his lumpy claret-colored nose and ale-soaked beard.

Undistorted by drink, his was a voice one might be

pleased to listen to, I thought.

“So, have you done great things, then?” I asked

him.

“I’ve tried, and I’ve succeeded beyond my wildest

dreams.”

“Have you really?”

“Ah, but that was long ago. It doesn’t pay a man to

dream, and the dreams that matter most can never

come true. I didn’t know that when I was young. I’m

glad I didn’t.” He sighed. “What about you, my good

fellow? What will be your great achievement?

Solving the murders of Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury

and Richard Negus?”

He spoke as if this were an unworthy goal.

“I never knew Negus, though I saw him once or

twice,” he went on. “Shortly after I arrived in the

village, he left it. One man comes, another man goes,

and both for the very same reason. Both with the

heaviest of hearts.”