Mystery Mile (15 page)

The unprepossessing postmaster shot one delighted glance at the angry Cuddy and stalked into the room with the air of a conqueror. He was clutching his bowler hat, and was still in his overcoat which he had put on to hide his apron.

‘'Ere I am, sir,' he said to Marlowe. There was a faint tinge of colour in his flaccid face. ‘I saw the car turn into the drive and I put on me 'at and run after you, sir. I knew you'd be wantin' the truth. My daughter, sir, she found the remains, as you might say.' His eyes were watering and his lips twitching with excitement.

‘Is your daughter here?' said Campion with unusual peremptoriness.

‘No, sir.' Mr Kettle assumed an air of parental indignation. ‘Wot?' he said, with great dignity. ‘Think, sir. 'Ow could I subject the poor girl to look on once again that 'orror that 'as turned 'er from a 'ealthy woman, sir, to a mere wreck of 'er former self?'

In spite of the anxiety of the situation there was something extremely laughable in Mr Kettle's rhetorical outburst.

He lent an air of theatricality to a scene that would otherwise have been too terrible.

‘No, sir, she is not 'ere,' he continued. ‘And I may add, sir,' he went on with gathering righteousness, ‘that she was in such an 'elpless state, sir, such a nasty 'opeless condition, sir, that I left 'er to mind the post office and come myself. I would like
to mention also, sir,' he added, fixing a malignant eye upon Giles, ‘that although I 'ave offered myself to be the messenger, no one 'as, as yet, sent for the police. It will look very suspicious, sir, when they do come. Although you are the son of the dead man, sir' – he swung round upon Marlowe on the words – ‘it'll look nasty.'

‘What dead man?' said Mr Campion, coming forward. He had developed a magisterial air that contrasted very oddly with his appearance. ‘Have you got the body?'

‘Me, sir? Oh no, sir.' Mr Kettle was not in the least abashed. ‘When we find that I dare say we'll know who killed 'im.'

‘Oh yes?' said Mr Campion with interest. ‘How was he killed?'

‘With a dagger, sir.' Mr Kettle made the startling announcement in a breathless whisper.

‘How do you know?' said Mr Campion.

Mr Kettle rested one hand upon the table and assumed the attitude of a lecturer. ‘I 'ave the detective mind, sir,' he said. ‘I form my theories and they work out in accordance.'

‘That's rather nice,' said Mr Campion. ‘I must do that.'

Mr Kettle ignored him. ‘To begin with, let us start with the discovery of this clue.' He waved his hand towards the table. ‘My daughter, sir, an innocent girl, unsuspecting, goes for a walk, sir. This is the seaside, she thinks; why shouldn't she walk there?'

‘No reason at all,' said Mr Campion. He was standing with one hand on Marlowe's shoulder, and the American's keen, clever face wore an expression of enlightenment.

‘Well, she went along the beach – that is, on the edge of the saltings – on the sea wall, in fact. Imagine 'er for yourselves, careless, free –'

‘Oh, cut the cackle,' said Giles. ‘Tell us what happened.'

‘I'm speakin' of my daughter, sir,' said Mr Kettle with dignity.

‘You're also speaking of this lady's father,' said Giles. ‘You'll say what you know, and then clear out.'

A particularly nasty expression came into Mr Kettle's white face.

‘You're the wise one, sir,' he said. ‘I shall be a witness at the inquest, don't forget. It's going to be very significant, I may say.'

‘I'm sure it is,' said Mr Campion soothingly. ‘Suppose you tell us about those deductions of yours.'

The postmaster was mollified. ‘My knowledge is based on these instructive facts, sir,' he said. ‘Look at this jagged hole, right over the region of the heart. Was that made by a knife, or was it not? It was, sir. See those stains all round? If you don't know what that is, I can tell you. It's blood – 'eart's blood, sir.'

Once more Giles was about to break out angrily, but this time it was Isopel who restrained him.

‘What does that show, sir? The victim was stabbed to death with a knife. Then again, these clothes are soppin' wet with sea water. What does that show?'

‘That they've been in the sea,' suggested Mr Campion.

‘Exactly, sir, you've ‘it it in one. Mr Lobbett was taken out in a boat, stabbed through the heart, and thrown into the water.'

‘Where he undressed,' said Mr Campion, ‘being careful to remove his braces. So far I think that's perfectly clear. However, there are several other little matters that'll have to be explained before we call in Scotland Yard. In the first place, there's this knife thrust. Rather a curious incision, don't you think? A little hole nicked with a pair of scissors and then made larger with a table knife. And then these bloodstains. The poor man seems to have bled from outside his clothes. The inside, you see, is pretty clean. But the gore on the outside is sensational. I wonder who's been killing chickens lately?'

Mr Kettle sat down on the edge of a chair, his face immovable. Mr Campion continued.

‘There is something fishy about this – a whole kettle of fishiness, I might say. Someone's been playing the fool with you. I should go back to the post office.'

Mr Kettle got up, picked up his bowler hat, and walked quietly out of the room.

Campion turned to Isopel and Marlowe and spoke with
genuine contrition. ‘Will you forgive me for making you listen to all that?' he said. ‘But I had to do it to find out how much the local Sherlock knew.'

‘Then what do you make of these?' Marlowe indicated the soaking garments.

‘An extraordinary bad fake on somebody's part,' said Mr Campion. ‘I never saw such amateur work. This isn't your New York friends: it looks more like home product to me. I suppose you haven't been offering a reward by any chance?'

‘No,' said Marlowe. ‘But you can't get away from it, Campion,' he broke out. ‘That's the suit he was wearing.'

‘I know,' said Mr Campion. ‘That's the only thing that makes it interesting. I think if you'll excuse me I'll go down to the village and make a few investigations.'

‘Are you going to interview Kettle again?' Biddy spoke curiously.

‘I hardly think so,' said Mr Campion. He smiled at her. ‘He's not the only interesting character in the place.'

GILES AND ISOPEL
were sitting in the window-seat in the morning-room, holding hands.

The sunlight poured in upon them, and the village of Mystery Mile was as peaceful as if nothing untoward had ever happened upon the whole island. They were alone. Biddy was at the Dower House, and Mr Campion off once more upon his investigations in the village.

The rustle of car wheels outside on the drive startled the two, and Isopel, who caught a fleeting glance of a putty-coloured body and crimson wings, turned to Giles looking uttery dismayed.

‘Oh, my dear,' she said. ‘He's come back!'

‘Who? Your father?' Giles was ever more physically than mentally alert.

‘No. That was Mr Barber.'

The young squire bounced to his feet.

‘Good Lord!' he said. ‘What cheek that chap has! I'll kick him out.'

He advanced towards the door, but it was opened before he reached it. Mr Barber, complete with satchel and the most important smile imaginable, appeared upon the threshold.

‘Mr Paget,' he said, holding out his hand. ‘Let me be the first to congratulate you.'

Giles, taken completely off his guard, reddened and glanced sheepishly at Isopel.

‘I don't know how you knew –' he began. But Mr Barber was still talking. ‘My boy, I have the proof – the proof positive. The thing's genuine. I should like to arrange for the sale with you.'

It was only at this moment that Giles realized that he had
been mistaken and that Mr Barber was not talking about the all-important subject of which his own mind was full.

Isopel slipped her arm through his. ‘It's the picture, dear,' she whispered.

‘Of course I'm talking about the picture,' said Mr Barber testily. ‘Come and see it for yourselves.' He bustled out of the room as he spoke, leading them into the cool drawing-room on the other side of the house.

The portrait hung over the mantelpiece: a long-dead Mistress Paget, who smiled at them with foolish sweetness from out of her monstrous gold frame. She wore a diaphanous scarf over her golden hair, and one slender hand caressed a little white dog who nestled in the folds of her oyster-coloured gown.

Mr Barber was visibly excited. ‘As soon as I saw it,' he said, his eyes watering profusely, ‘I said to myself, “This is the moment of my career. Here is an undiscovered Romney, one of the finest I have ever seen.” I must see Judge Lobbett immediately and make my report. I'm afraid my little Cotmans sink into obscurity beside this master.'

‘Look here,' said Giles, managing to get a word in when Mr Barber paused to breathe, ‘this is all very fine but you don't seem to understand. We can't be bothered with little things like this just now. You don't appear to have grasped the fact that Mr Lobbett has disappeared. Naturally we can't consider doing anything till he's found.'

‘Disappeared?' said Mr Barber, the fact apparently dawning on him for the first time.

‘Yes,' said Giles irritably. ‘And his blood-stained clothes were found in a pool yesterday.'

The effect upon Mr Barber was extraordinary. His mouth fell open, his eyes bulged, and he sat down suddenly upon the edge of a chair as if his feet would not support him.

‘I didn't believe you,' he said blankly. ‘I thought you were all joking with me. So many people are afraid of anyone who might want to sell them a picture. I thought Mr Lobbett was away on some visit. When Mr Campion and young Lobbett gave me the slip in London they were joking. Campion jokes
so often. This is terrible – terrible! Where are the police?'

Giles hesitated, and then spoke stiffly. ‘We decided that there was no need for them at present.'

Mr Barber raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, then, I see you know where he is?' he said. ‘You thought it would be best for him to disappear for a little while?'

‘Certainly not,' said Giles. ‘But we've the finest – er – private detective in the world investigating for us.'

Mr Barber appeared to be quite as much bewildered as before. ‘Oh, I see,' he said. ‘But in these circumstances, for whom am I acting? I mean,' he added a little helplessly, ‘what is my position here?'

The easy-going good-tempered Giles relented. ‘Oh, that'll be all right,' he said cheerfully. ‘Suppose you go back to town tomorrow and send me in a list of your expenses?'

‘But the Romney?' said Mr Barber, his voice rising to a squeak.

A hint of the long line of independent landowners behind him was apparent in Giles just then, as he stood squarely under the picture, his brows contracted. ‘It's hung there for the last hundred years, and it can stay there a year or so longer if necessary,' he said. ‘I've told you, sir, that I can't be bothered about it now.'

‘But it's worth a fortune,' objected Mr Barber.

‘I don't care what it's worth,' said Giles stubbornly. ‘I shall have to wait until all this is settled before I think about anything else. I'll write you then. Will that do?'

It was evident that Mr Barber felt that he was dealing with a lunatic. ‘You must forgive my insistence,' he said with dignity, ‘but the commission. If you would allow me to take the picture –'

‘No, I'm hanged if I will,' said Giles, his irritation returning.

‘Then let me take more photographs. There are so many people who will be interested. The expert's tone was supplicating. I can prepare the market. Surely, surely you will not forbid me to do that?'

‘Oh, do what you like,' said Giles, ‘only don't move the picture.'

He put his arm through Isopel's and was leading her out of the room when they met Marlowe in the doorway.

His dark handsome face was more than usually serious.

‘Seen Biddy?' he asked.

‘She's down at the Dower House,' said Giles. ‘Anything I can do?'

‘No. That's all right.' Marlowe did not stop, but hurried on his way, leaving the young man engrossed in Isopel and Mr Barber standing before the Romney, his pudgy feet well apart, his hands clasped behind his back, and upon his face an expression of rapt, almost idolatrous, admiration.

Fifteen minutes later found Marlowe striding across the park, where he encountered Mr Campion. The pale foolish-looking young man came along thoughtfully, whistling plaintively to himself.

‘Hullo,' he said cheerfully. ‘I've just thought of something. Listen –

There's uplift for you. It's the message that counts.'

Marlowe did not appear to have heard. ‘I say,' he said, ‘have you seen Biddy?'

Mr Campion looked hurt. ‘No soul for Higher Things,' he murmured. ‘No, I've been sleuthing about the village, and I believe that I have lighted upon something.' He paused. ‘You're not listening to me,' he said regretfully.

‘No,' said Marlowe. ‘I'm sorry, Campion, and I don't want to make a fuss, but I can't find Biddy anywhere. She's gone.'

‘Gone?'

Marlowe glanced up to find Campion staring at him. His vacuous face was transformed by an expression of puzzled consternation and incredulity.

‘Absurd,' he said at last. ‘How long have you been looking for her?'

‘All the morning,' said Marlowe. ‘The fact is,' he went on, the words blurring a little in his embarrassment, ‘she'd promised to meet me. We were going down to the Saddleback Creek. But this isn't – ordinary caprice. She's not that sort of kid.'