Mad Hatter's Holiday (11 page)
‘Really, sir? What was he doing?’
‘Taking lunch at Mutton’s with Miss Floyd-Whittingham, the young woman with copper-coloured hair. Afterwards they walked along the front to Lewes Crescent. Sergeant, they were arm in arm! It was as though he already knew— what we now know.’
‘And you’ve seen him since then?’
‘Several times. Twice with the young woman. Did you know that she is said to be a
colonel’s
daughter? I would hazard that he spends each afternoon with her. His routine is inflexible, if my observations mean anything. He rises late, bathes at Brill’s, has lunch at Mutton’s or the Aquarium and then walks along the upper promenande to Lewes Crescent. Sometimes his son, Guy, has lunch with him.’
‘What does the boy do with himself for the rest of the day?’
‘He bicycles a good deal, and bathes.’
‘What about the second son—the child?’
‘Jason? I have seen nothing of him or his nursemaid since Saturday. Good God, Sergeant, the most appalling thought has occurred to me. You don’t think—‘
‘No, sir, I don’t. Not when I’m on a job like this. I just leave every possibility open. They
could
have been sent back to Dorking. One thing’s certain—if you haven’t seen ’em in four days they ain’t in circulation here, we can depend upon it.’
He took the emphasis for a compliment. ‘There isn’t much that I miss, Sergeant. I shall naturally communicate everything else of significance that I observe. Dr. Prothero is still in ignorance of who I am, you see. My services as an observer are at Scotland Yard’s disposal.’
Cribb coughed. ‘Much appreciated, Mr. Moscrop, much appreciated. Now that you’ve given us this information, however, I think you’re entitled to enjoy the rest of your holiday and leave the investigations to us. I’ll get a statement of what you’ve told us neatly written out and I’d be obliged if you’d call in tomorrow to put your signature to it. Lovely sunshine outside, sir. Pleasant afternoon for a dip.’
THE INCIDENT IN BRILL’S next morning was so alien to the good-humoured atmosphere traditionally engendered in swimming baths for gentlemen that everyone was caught unawares. Several patrons whose sorties from the side had them facing the wrong direction at the crucial moment frankly refused to believe that it had happened. Its onset was unimaginably sudden: a thrashing of water sufficient to suggest that a harpoonist had scored a hit near the centre of the pool, a frantic striking for the side, a cascading emergence of Dr. Prothero on the tiled surround, and an outraged challenge to the man standing in front of his changing-cubicle, ‘That is my towel you are holding, sir!’
The defaulter, tall, sharp of feature, with a waspish look about him, not unconnected with the colours of his costume, said, ‘No, sir. It is mine.’
‘Good God!’ said Prothero. ‘I know my own towel. Return it to me at once, sir!’
The other unconcernedly applied the towel to his left arm-pit. ‘You’re mistaken. This is mine. I left it hanging over the cubicle door.’
Plainly shaken by the confidence of the performance, Prothero looked to right and left to get his bearings. ‘But this is
my
cubicle and
my
green and white towel.’
‘Perhaps your memory is at fault. Look around you. There are at least a dozen towels hanging over doors.’
‘But none of them is green and white!’ said Prothero, just refraining from stamping a bare foot.
‘Exactly. You must have brought one of another colour with you. Easy to make mistakes about such unimportant things.’
Prothero stood like Alice in the presence of the Mad Hatter.
‘If someone has taken yours,’ the other advised him, ‘we should tell the attendant. I could lend you this one, of course, but it’s rather wet. Don’t stand there getting cold. Walk around the edge of the pool at a sharp step and you’ll be dry in no time. When I’m dressed I’ll speak to the attendant for you. Things like this shouldn’t be allowed to happen.’ He towelled his hair vigorously. ‘I don’t know what Brill’s is coming to when a man can’t leave his towel hanging over a door without some scoundrel helping himself to it.’
‘Would you believe me if my clothes were in the cubicle?’ Prothero appealed. ‘A silk hat and a frock-coat?’
‘That’s not all, I trust,’ said the man with the towel, ‘or you
will
feel a draught. Certainly have a look. We’re all liable to make mistakes. The door’s unbolted, you see . . . Oh, my stars!’
‘There!’ said Prothero, vindicated by the contents of the cubicle. ‘Now perhaps you will kindly return
my
towel.’ The satisfaction of confounding such arrant self-righteousness quite made up for the state of the towel.
‘How can I begin to apologise?’ said the other. ‘My own towel must have been taken—or did I leave it inside the cubicle? Good Lord, sir, I’m cut to the quick. Mortified with shame. It must be the circular shape of the building, you see. Lost my bearings.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Prothero loftily.
‘But it does. The things I said. You must allow me to stand you a meal. If you don’t, I shall never be able to hold my head up again.’
‘It isn’t necessary.’
‘My name’s Cribb. Shall we go to Mutton’s?’
‘Prothero—Dr. Prothero. There is really no need—‘ ‘I’ll find my cubicle and see you in a few minutes. The least I can do.’
So Sergeant Cribb presently sat with the doctor at a central table in Mutton’s main dining-room, a monument to the glazier’s craft, with mirrors along every wall, a domed skylight and chandelier above them and statuettes and wax flowers encased in glass on a buhl cabinet at one end. A third place was reserved for Prothero’s son, after the doctor explained that they had arranged to meet there.
‘There are just the two of you in Brighton, then?’ Cribb ventured.
‘Guy and myself, yes. My wife and younger son were here until Sunday, but they had to return to Dorking prematurely. The child was unwell.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Some childish malady, I expect?’
‘Oh, yes. I think the food upset him, or the change of air. He is not yet three. I told my wife to let the nursemaid take Jason home, but she was most insistent on going with them. It is her first child and she is devoted to it. Shall we order? Guy won’t object, I’m sure. He is late, anyway—throwing an eye over the fillies in the King’s Road, I shouldn’t wonder. The two-legged ones. Are you here for the season, Mr. Cribb?’
‘No, no. Business brings me to Brighton. What will you order, Doctor? I believe the turtle soup is just about obligatory.’ When the waiter had gone, he said, ‘I arrived here only two days ago. Missed the return of the regiment. Did you see them?’
‘A stirring sight,’ said Prothero. ‘First-rate band, too. I don’t think there was a soul left on the beach on the morning of the march-past. Are you a military man, Mr. Cribb? There’s something of the soldier in your bearing.’
‘Yes, I took the shilling in my time. Served a few years until the home comforts began to beckon. Did you get to the ball at the Dome? I suppose you wouldn’t have been invited, not being resident in the town.’
‘As a matter of fact, I was,’ Prothero said, in a voice that suggested Cribb was making unwarranted assumptions again. ‘It was the outstanding night of the season.
Everyone
was there.’
‘How splendid! It must have made a fitting climax to your wife’s holiday.’
‘My wife was not present.’
‘Oh. You took your son?’
‘A friend. Guy has not enough manners yet for these occasions. My wife does not attend evening engagements for reasons of health. She is of a nervous disposition. Ah! Here comes the boy.’ He signalled with a table-napkin. ‘He’s somewhat short on the social graces, Mr. Cribb, as you’ll presently see. Had a rather narrow upbringing. I blame the school.’
Guy was wearing his red blazer. ‘I thought we were taking lunch alone,’ he told his father, with the merest glance at Cribb, who had stood to receive him.
‘Mr. Cribb, this is my elder son, Guy.’
Cribb extended his hand. Guy produced his snuff and charged each nostril, ignoring the sergeant.
‘Mr. Cribb met me in Brill’s—‘ ‘In circumstances too embarrassing to recall,’ said Cribb, putting down his hand. ‘I’m standing the lunch. Order whatever you wish.’
In a few minutes they were all busy with soup-spoons.
‘Have you left school?’ Cribb inquired conversationally.
‘Ask him,’ said Guy.
‘It’s a sensitive point at the moment,’ Prothero explained. ‘Guy has left one school and is about to start at another.’
‘A boarding establishment?’
‘Yes. This is by way of a farewell holiday. He starts in two weeks.’
‘Where is the school?’
‘He won’t tell you where it is while I’m here,’ Guy informed Cribb, ignoring his father. ‘He doesn’t want me to know. I’m treated no better than Jason. I’ll have a sirloin steak next, cooked rare. It’s probably in the Outer Hebrides.’
‘Guy has a well-developed sense of humour which does not endear him to schoolmasters,’ said Prothero. ‘Or his family, on occasions.’
‘It’s true!’ said Guy. ‘When have you ever treated me with anything but suspicion? You’re fearful all the time that I’ll embarrass you and your quack theories. I can’t even come on holiday without being forbidden to bathe in the sea because you think it’s teeming with typhoid germs.’
‘My quack theories, as you term them, are supported by a substantial correspondence in
The Lancet
, my boy,’ retorted Prothero. ‘Any other lad in your condition would be grateful that he had a doctor for a father. He suffers from asthma, you know,’ he added, for Cribb’s information, ‘and I have made the disease my life’s work. Don’t so lightly dismiss the efforts I have made to alleviate your attacks, Guy.’
‘How can I, when I have a bruise on my arm as big as half a crown to remind me? That’s a father’s loving care for you. I began to wheeze a bit on Sunday,’ Guy told Cribb, ‘so he gave me an injection of atropine. He might be a specialist on asthma, but he handles the needle like a punt-pole.’
‘How long do you expect to be in Brighton, Mr. Cribb?’ asked Prothero, in a way that indicated that so far as he was concerned the insults had gone far enough.
‘Oh, as long as my business detains me.’
Guy turned sharply and looked at Cribb and then turned back to his father. ‘What did you say his name was?’ he asked.
‘I told you,’ said Prothero with a glare. ‘This is Mr. Cribb.’
‘I thought that was it! And you’ve only been in the town a day or two? You’re the man from Scotland Yard, aren’t you?’ demanded Guy triumphantly. ‘Investigating the body they dug up on the beach. I’ve read it in
The Argus.
What do they call you—
Inspector
Cribb?’
‘Sergeant only, I’m afraid.’
‘You’d better watch out, Father. Sergeant Cribb’s looking for a murderer. Better get home quick and pour your poisons down the wash basin. Business! You’re a fly one, Sergeant Cribb, aren’t you?’
‘It’s never been the custom of detectives to give cards to everyone they meet,’ said Cribb, matching the sarcasm. ‘Perhaps you think I should give you an account, item by item, of what we uncovered the other morning. It’s not my notion of lunch time conversation, but if you can enjoy a slice of sirloin at the same time, I’m sure I can. What would you like to know? Ah, here’s the waiter. Are we all for steak, gentlemen?’
‘I think the soup was quite sufficient,’ said Prothero, palely.
‘What about your son?’
Guy shook his head. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have a cold collation later.’
‘Steak for one, then. Well done, if you please,’ said Cribb. ‘As it happens, gentlemen, it’s the victim I’m concerned to identify. I’ll find my murderer later. I want to know who the unfortunate woman was. There isn’t much to go on, you see. Dark hair. Age about thirty. Small to medium height. Slim in build. Wearing a sealskin jacket and black skirt. Could be every other woman you pass in the street. That’s why I have to know about women who haven’t been seen in the town since Saturday—for whatever reason. It’s my job to investigate every report.’
Prothero frowned. ‘Am I to infer that you are concerned for the safety of my wife?’
‘Yes, sir, since I have it on quite good authority that she hasn’t been seen in Brighton since Saturday.’
There was a moment’s uneasy silence.
‘Your wife didn’t accompany you to the ball,’ Cribb added as if to strengthen the point.
The colour rose in the doctor’s cheeks. ‘I told you. She doesn’t go out in the evening. She was in one piece on Sunday, dammit, and if you’d asked me in the first place I could have told you so.’
‘You accompanied her to the station on Sunday morning?’
‘Er—no. They took a cab.’
‘Your wife, the maid Bridget and Jason?’
‘Good God, man! Do you even know the name of my servant?’
‘Did the three of them travel together, sir?’ persisted Cribb.
‘Naturally.’
‘You saw them leave?’
‘Of course! After a late breakfast. They would have caught the half past eleven train. If the change at Horsham didn’t delay them, they must have been home by one.’
‘That’s good news, then,’ said Cribb, leaning back in his seat as the steak was placed in front of him. ‘Would you be so kind as to pass the French mustard? Whoever this young woman was, she was killed on Saturday night. Not far from your hotel, so you can understand my concern.’
‘There were scores of men and women on the front that night,’ Guy suddenly said. ‘It was the firework show. I saw them from the hotel window. I expect a soldier got too much drink inside him and killed the doxy he was with. Then he dragged her into one of the lock-ups under the arches and left her until the next night, then he came back and set to work with the cleaver. There! I’ve solved the case for you.’
‘It’s one possibility,’ said Cribb, without much gratitude. ‘You say you watched the fireworks from the hotel. Were you with your stepmother?’
‘She was asleep,’ Prothero stated confidently.
‘No, Father. She got up to watch the fireworks.’
‘But she had taken her usual sleeping draught.’
‘I think not. We watched the show together from your bedroom. She would tell you herself if she were here. I went out on the balcony for a time, but she was wearing her peignoir, so she remained inside.’
‘The suite overlooks the front, I gather,’ said Cribb.
‘That’s so,’ Prothero confirmed. ‘My wife and I have a double room with a balcony, the best in the hotel. Jason sleeps next door—or did until Sunday—with Bridget, and their window looks on to the sea, too. Guy is on the other side of the building, across the corridor. The boy’s right, Mr.
Cribb. There are always people along the front at night, and on the beach. Soldiers, sailors, silly little sluts of shop-girls and females of a certain profession. They don’t go there just to promenade, I promise you. Brighton is not all it seems by day in the King’s Road, you know. One has only to see the colonnade of the Theatre Royal between eleven and midnight— a veritable Gomorrah. The women of the town flock there from their sordid houses of assignation in Church Street and Edward Street and some do not even have the decency to take their clients back there. The Pavilion grounds aren’t fit to walk through by night, and you may ask your friends at Brighton police station to verify that, if you wish.’
‘I’m sure I shan’t need to, sir. Now, gentlemen, the pastries here are recommended, I believe. Cooked on the premises. You’ll have one on Scotland Yard, I hope, seeing that you haven’t eaten very much.’
Guy stood up suddenly and tossed his crumpled napkin on the table. ‘I don’t want pastries. I need some fresh air.’
‘His condition,’ Prothero explained by way of an excuse, after the red blazer was lost to view. ‘It’s in the blood, inherited from his late mother. Providentially, I am able to subdue the attacks if I cannot dispel them altogether. I
will
have a pastry, if you please.’
The tray was brought and coffee served at the same time.
‘I should think you’ve had your difficulties with Guy, then,’ said Cribb.
‘In which way, exactly?’
