Have His Carcase (21 page)

over to Heathbury on his motor-cycle, and I was watching the clock, as you

might say, to see how soon I’d get my work finished with. There wasn’t

nobody come in after Mr Martin, so I was able to clear away and get dressed

and very pleased I was about it.’

This was clear enough. Mr Martin had certainly not left the Three Feathers

earlier than 1.30. Undoubtedly he was not the murderer of Paul Alexis.

Nevertheless, having begun his investigation, Wimsey determined to carry it

through to the bitter end. Alibis, he reminded himself, were made to be broken.

He would suppose that, by means of a magic carpet or other device, Mr Martin

had been miraculously wafted from Darley to the Flat-Iron between 1.30 and

two o’clock. In that case, did he come back that afternoon, and if so, when?

and how?

There were not a great many houses in Darley, and a door-to-door inquiry,

though laborious, seemed to be a fairly safe and certain method of answering

these questions. He puled up his socks and set to work. He had no difficulty in

getting the vilagers to talk. The death of Paul Alexis was a local event of an

importance that almost swamped last Saturday’s cricket match, and the

revolutionary proposal to turn the disused Quaker meeting-house into a cinema;

while the arrival of the Wilvercombe police to make inquiries about the

movements of Mr Martin had raised the excitement to fever pitch. Darley felt

strongly that, if this kind of thing was going to happen, it might get into the

papers again. Darley had actualy been in the papers that year already, when

Mr Gubbins, the vicar’s warden, had drawn a consolation prize in the Grand

National sweep. The sporting half of Darley had been delighted, but envious;

the pious half had been quite unable to understand why the vicar had not

immediately dismissed Mr Gubbins from his privilege of handing round the plate

and sitting on the Church Council, and thought that Mr Gubbins’s action in

devoting a tithe of his winnings to the Restoration Fund merely piled hypocrisy

on the head of debauchery. But now, with the hope that they might be found to

have entertained an angel of darkness unawares, they foresaw al manner of

publicity. Wimsey discovered several people who thought that Mr Martin’s

manner odd and had not liked his face and who said so, at considerable length.

It was, however, only after nearly two hours’ patient research that he

discovered somebody who had actualy seen Mr Martin on Thursday

afternoon. This was, of course, the most obvious person in the vilage – namely

the proprietor of the little tin bungalow that did duty for a garage, and the only

reason why Wimsey did not get this information a great deal sooner was that

the said proprietor – one, Mr Polwhistle – had gone out when he first caled

upon him, to tackle the internals of a sick petrol-gas engine at a neighbouring

farm, leaving behind him only a young woman to attend to the pump.

Mr Polwhistle, when he returned in company of a youthful mechanic, was

most discouragingly informative. Mr Martin? – oh, yes. He (Mr Polwhistle) had

seen him on Thursday afternoon al right. Mr Martin had come in – just upon

three o’clock, weren’t it, Tom? Yes, three o’clock – and asked them to come

and have a look at his Morgan. They had gone round, and found that the

Morgan wouldn’t start, not for toffee. After prolonged investigation and

exercise on the starting-handle, they had diagnosed trouble with the ignition.

They had taken everything out and looked at it, and eventualy it had occurred

to Mr Polwhistle that the fault might be in the H.T. lead. On their removing this

and putting in a new one, the engine had started up at once, sweet as a nut.

There could be no doubt about the time, because Tom had entered it upon his

time-sheet; 3 p.m. til 4 p.m.

It was now nearly half-past four, and Wimsey felt that he had a good chance

of finding Mr Goodrich at home. He was directed to his house – the big place

up the first turning off the Wilvercombe Road – and found the good gentleman

and his family gathered about a table wel spread with bread and cakes and

honey and Devonshire cream.

Mr Goodrich, a stout and hearty squire of the old school, was delighted to

give any assistance in his power. Mr Martin had turned up at the house at about

seven o’clock on the Tuesday evening and had asked permission to camp at

the bottom of Hinks’s Lane. Why Hinks’s Lane, by the way? Wel, there used

to be a cottage there that belonged to an old felow caled Hinks – a regular

character – used to read the Bible through regularly every year, and it was to

be hoped it did him good, for a graceless old scamp he was and always had

been. But that was donkey’s years ago, and the cottage had falen into

disrepair. Nobody ever went down there now, except campers. Mr Martin had

not asked for information about camping-grounds; he had asked straight out for

permission to camp in Hinks’s Lane, caling it by that name. Mr Goodrich had

never set eyes on Mr Martin before, and he (Mr Goodrich) knew pretty wel

everything that went on in the vilage. He was almost certain that Mr Martin had

never been in Darley before. No doubt somebody had told him about Hinks’s

Lane – it was a regular place for campers. They were out of the way down

there, and there were no crops for them to damage and no gates for them to

leave open, unless they were to go out of their way to trespass on Farmer

Newcombe’s pasture on the other side of the hedge. But there was no

necessity for them to do so, as it didn’t lead anywhere. The stream that ran

through the pasture came out on to the beach only fifty yards away from the

camping-ground and was fresh, except, of course, at flood-tide, when it was

brackish. Now Mr Goodrich came to think about it, he believed there had been

some complaint from Mr Newcombe about a broken hedge, but the story only

came through Geary the blacksmith, who was a notorious talker and he (Mr

Goodrich) didn’t see that it had anything to do with Mr Martin. Mr Newcombe

was not altogether a satisfactory tenant in the matter of repairs to hedges and

when there were gaps, animals would sometimes stray through them. Apart

from this, he (Mr Goodrich) knew nothing to Mr Martin’s discredit. He seemed

to have been quiet enough, and in any case, Hinks’s Lane being out of sight and

sound of the vilage, campers couldn’t make nuisances of themselves down

there. Some of them brought gramophones or concertinas or ukuleles,

according to their taste and social position, but Mr Goodrich had no objection

to their amusing themselves, so long as they didn’t disturb anybody. He never

made any charge for camping on his ground – it didn’t hurt
him
, and he didn’t

see why he should take payment for letting the poor devils who lived in town

help themselves to a mouthful of fresh air and a drink of water. He usualy

asked them to leave the place as tidy as they could, and as a rule he had found

them pretty decent in this respect.

Wimsey thanked Mr Goodrich and accepted his hospitable invitation to tea.

He left at six o’clock, ful of buns and cream, with just nice time to pay a visit to

the camping-ground and so round off the chapter of Mr Martin. He drove

down the stony little lane, and soon found signs of Mr Martin’s recent

presence. The land led out upon a flat expanse of rough turf, beyond which a

belt of heavy stones and shingle sloped down to the edge of, the sea. The tide

was about a quarter-ful, and the beach became progressively less rough as it

neared the water; presumably at low tide there would be a narrow strip of sand

left uncovered.

The tracks of the Morgan’s wheels were stil faintly visible upon the coarse

grass, and there was a patch of oily drippings to show where it had been

parked. Close by, there were the holes where the pole and pegs of a smal bel-

tent had been driven in. There were the ashes of a burnt-out wood fire, and,

among them, a bal of greasy newspaper, which had obviously been used to

scrub out a frying-pan. Rather reluctantly, Wimsey unfolded the distasteful

sheets and glanced at the heading. Thursday’s
Morning Star
; nothing

particularly exciting about that. Careful search among the ashes of the fire

revealed no blood-stained fragments of clothing – not so much as a button of a

garment – no half-burnt scraps of paper which might have contained a clue to

Mr Martin’s real name and address. The only thing that was in any way

remarkable was a piece of thinnish rope about three inches long, heavily

blackened by the fire. Wimsey pocketed this, for lack of better occupation, and

searched further.

Mr Martin had been a tidy camper on the whole, leaving no obviously

offensive débris. On the right-hand side of the camping-ground there was,

however, the remains of a stunted thorn hedge, surrounding the battered

remnants of Hinks’s Cottage. Half buried at the foot of this hedge, Wimsey

discovered a repulsive cache, containing a great number of old tins and bottles,

some recent and some obviously abandoned by previous campers, the heels of

some loaves, the bones from a neck of mutton, an old dixie with a hole in the

bottom, half a neck-tie, a safety-razor blade (stil sharp enough to cut one’s

fingers on) and a very dead gul. An elaborate and back-aching crawl over the

whole surface of the camping-ground rewarded the earnest sleuth further with

an immoderate quantity of burnt matches, six empty match-boxes of foreign

make, the dottles of several pipes, three oat-grains, a broken bootlace (brown),

the stalks of about a pound of strawberries, six plum-stones, the stub of a

pencil, a drawing-pin business end up, fifteen beer-corks, and an instrument for

removing the patent caps of other beer-bottles. The rough grass showed no

identifiable footprints.

Weary and hot, Lord Peter gathered his loot together and stretched his

cramped limbs. The wind, stil blowing heavily in from seaward, was grateful to

his perspiring brow, however much it might hold up the Inspector’s salvage

operations. The sky was cloudy, but so long as the wind held, there was, he

felt, not much likelihood of rain, and he was glad, for he didn’t want rain. A

vague possibility was forming itself in his mind, and he wanted to take a walk

next day with Harriet Vane. At the moment, he could do no more. He would go

back and change and eat and be normal.

He drove back to Wilvercombe.

After a hot bath and the putting-on of a boiled shirt and dinner-jacket, he felt

better and telephoned to the Resplendent to ask Harriet to dine with him.

‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t. I’m dining with Mrs Weldon and her son.’

‘Her son?’

‘Yes; he’s just arrived. Why not come round here after grub and be

introduced?’

‘Dunno. What sort of bloke is he?’

‘Oh, yes – he’s here, and would like to meet you very much.’

‘Oh, I see. We are being overheard. I suppose I’d better come and look the

blighter over. Is he handsome?’

‘Yes, rather! Come along about a quarter to nine.’

‘Wel, you’d better tel him we’re engaged, and then I shan’t be obliged to

assassinate him.’

‘You wil? That’s splendid.’

‘Wil you marry me?’

‘Of course not. We’l expect you at 8.45.’

‘Al right, and I hope your rabbit dies.’

Wimsey ate his solitary dinner thoughtfuly. So this was the son, was it? The

one who was out of sympathy with his mother. What was he doing here? Had

he suddenly become sympathetic? Or had she sent for him and compeled him

to come in, by financial or other pressure? Was he perhaps a new factor in the

problem? He was the only son of his mother and she a rich widow. Here at last

was a person to whom the removal of Paul Alexis might appear in the light of a

god-send. Undoubtedly the man must be looked into.

He went round to the Resplendent after dinner and found the party waiting

for him in the lounge. Mrs Weldon, who wore a plain black semi-evening dress

and looked her ful age in it, greeted Wimsey effusively.

‘My dear Lord Peter! I am
so
glad to see you. May I introduce my son

Henry? I wrote asking him to come and help us through this terrible time, and

he has
most
kindly put his own business aside and come to me. So very sweet

of you, Henry dear. I have just been teling Henry how good Miss Vane has

been to me, and how
hard
you and she are working to clear poor Paul’s

memory.’

Harriet had merely been mischievous. Henry was certainly not handsome,

though he was a good, sturdy specimen of his type. He stood about five foot

eleven – a strongly built, heavyish man with a brick-red al-weather face.