Supper, and Mr. Brinkman
Mrs. Davis’s cuisine, if it did not quite justify all the ironic
comments of the old gentleman, lent some colour to them. With the
adjectival trick of her class she always underestimated quantity,
referring to a large tureen as “a drop of soup,” and overestimated
quality, daily suggesting for her guests’ supper “a nice chop.” The
chop always appeared; the nice chop (as the old gentleman pointed out)
would have been a pleasant change. As surely as you had eggs and bacon
for breakfast, so surely you had a chop for supper; “and some nice
fruit to follow” heralded the entrance of a depressed blanc-mange
(which Mrs. Davis called “shape,” after its principal attribute) and
some cold green-gages. These must have come from Alcinous’s garden,
for at no time of the year were they out of season. If Angela had
stayed in the house for a fortnight, it is possible that she would
have taken Mrs. Davis in hand and inspired her with larger ideas, As
it was, she submitted, feeling that a suicide in the house was
sufficiently unsettling for Mrs. Davis without further upheavals.
The coffee room at the _Load of Mischief_ was not large enough to let
the company distribute itself at different tables, each party
conversing in low tones and eyeing its neighbours with suspicion. A
single long table accommodated them all, an arrangement which called
for a constant exercise of forced geniality. Bredon and Leyland were
both in a mood of contemplation, puzzling out the secret of the room
upstairs; Brinkman was plainly nervous, and eager to avoid discussing
the tragedy; Angela knew, from experience in such situations, the
value of silence. Only the old gentleman seemed quite at his ease,
dragging in the subject of Mottram with complete _sang-froid_ and in a
tone of irony which seemed inseparable from his personality. Brinkman
parried these topical references with considerable adroitness, showing
himself as he did so a travelled man and a man of intelligence, though
without much gift of humour.
Thus, in reply to a conventional question about his day’s sport, the
old gentleman returned, “No, I cannot say that I caught any. I think,
however, that I may claim without boasting to have frightened a few of
them. It is an extraordinary thing to me that Mottram, who was one of
your grotesquely rich men, should have come down for his fishing to an
impossible place like this, where every rise deserves a paragraph in
the local paper. If I were odiously rich, I would go to one of these
places in Scotland, or Norway, even, though I confess that I loathe
the Scandinavians. I have never met them, but the extravagant praise
bestowed upon them by my childhood’s geography books makes them
detestable to me.”
“I think,” said Brinkman, “that you would find some redeeming vices
among the Swedes. But poor Mottram’s reason was a simple one; he
belonged to these parts; Chilthorpe was his home town.”
“Indeed,” said the old gentleman, wincing slightly at the Americanism.
“Oo, yes,” said Angela, “we saw Mottram on the map. Was he a sort of
local squire, then?”
“Nothing of that sort,” replied Brinkman. “His people took their name
from the place, not the other way round. He started here with a big
shop, which he turned over to some relations of his when he made good
at Pullford. He quarrelled with them afterward, but he always had a
sentimental feeling for the place. It’s astonishing what a number of
group names there are still left in England. There is no clan system
to explain it. Yet I suppose every tenth family in this place is
called ‘Pillock.’”
“It suggests the accident of birth,” admitted the old gentleman,
“rather than choice. And poor Mottram’s family, you say, came from the
district?”
“They had been here, I believe, for generations. But this habit of
naming the man from the place is curiously English. Most nations have
the patronymic instinct; the Welsh, for example, or the Russians. But
with us, apparently, if a stranger moved into a new district, he
became John of Chilthorpe, and his descendants were Chilthorpes for
ever.”
“A strange taste,” pursued the old gentleman, harping on the unwelcome
subject, “to want to come and lay your bones among your ancestors. It
causes so much fuss and even scandal. For myself, if I ever decided to
put a term to my own existence, I should go to some abominable
place—Margate, for example—and try to give it a bad name by being
washed up just underneath the pier.”
“You would fail, sir,” objected Brinkman; “I mean, as far as giving it
a bad name was concerned. You do not give things a good name or a bad
name nowadays; you only give them an advertisement. I honestly believe
that if a firm advertised its own cigarettes as beastly it would draw
money from an inquisitive public.”
“Mrs. Davis has had an inquisitive public to-day. I assure you, when I
went out this morning I was followed for a considerable distance by a
crowd of small boys who probably thought that I intended to drag the
river. By the way, if they do drag the river, it will be interesting
to find out whether there were, after all, any fish in it. You will
let me be present, sir?” turning to Leyland, who was plainly annoyed
by the appeal. Angela had to strike in and ask who was the character
in _Happy Thoughts_ who was always asking his friends to come down and
drag the pond. So the uneasy conversation zigzagged on, Mr. Pulteney
always returning to the subject which occupied their thoughts, the
rest heading him off. Bredon was deliberately silent. He meant to have
an interview with Brinkman afterward, and he was determined that
Brinkman should have no chance of sizing him up beforehand.
The opportunity was found without difficulty after supper; Brinkman
succumbed at once to the offer of a cigar and a walk in the clear air
of the summer evening. Bredon had suggested sitting on the bridge, but
it was found that at that hour of the evening all the seating
accommodation was already booked. Brinkman then proposed a visit to
the Long Pool, but Bredon excused himself on the ground of distance.
They climbed a little way up the hill road, and found one of those
benches, seldom occupied, which seem to issue their invitation to
travellers who are short of breath. Here they could rest in solitude,
watching cloud after cloud as it turned to purple in the dying
sunlight and the shadows gathering darker over the hill crests.
“I’m from the Indescribable, you know. Expect Mrs. Davis has told you.
I’d better show you my cardcase so that you can see it’s correct. They
send me to fool round, you know, when this sort of thing happens. Have
to be careful, I suppose.” (“This Brinkman,” he had said to Angela,
“must take me for a bit of a chump; if possible, worse than I am.”)
“I don’t quite see”—— began Brinkman.
“Oh, the old thing, suicide, you know. Mark you, they don’t absolutely
bar it. I’ve known ’em pay up when a fellow was obviously potty. But
their rules are against it. What I say is, If a man has the pluck to
do himself in he ought to get away with the stakes, Well, all this
must be a great nuisance to you, Mr. Brickman”——
“Brinkman.”
“Sorry, always was a fool about names. Well, what I mean is, it can’t
be very pleasant for you to have so many people nosing round; but it’s
got to be done somehow, and you seem to be the right man to come to.
D’you think there was anything wrong in the upper story?”
“The man was as sane as you or I. I never knew a man with such a level
head.”
“Well, that’s important. You don’t mind if I scribble a note or two?
I’ve got such a wretched memory. Then, here’s another thing: was the
old fellow worried about anything? His health, for example?”
There was an infinitesimal pause; just for that fraction of a second
which is fatal, because it shews that a man is making up his mind what
to say. Then Brinkman said: “Oh, there can be no doubt of that. I
thought he’d been and told your people about it. He went to a doctor
in London and was told that he’d only two more years to live.”
“Meaning, I suppose”——
“He never told me. He was always a peculiar man about his health; he
got worried even if he had a boil on his neck. No, I don’t think he
was a hypochondriac; he was a man who’d had no experience of
ill-health, and the least thing scared him. When he told me about his
interview with the specialist he seemed all broken up, and I hadn’t
the heart to question him about it. Besides, it wasn’t my place. I
expect you’ll find that he never told any one.”
“One could ask the medico, I suppose. But they’re devilish close,
ain’t they, those fellows.”
“You’ve got to find out his name first. Mottram was very secret about
it; if he wrote to make an appointment, the letter wasn’t sent through
me. It’s a difficult job, circularizing Harley Street.”
“All the same the doctor in Pullford might know. He probably
recommended somebody.”
“What doctor in Pullford? I don’t believe Mottram’s been to a doctor
any time these last five years. I was always asking him to these last
few months because he told me he was worried about his health, though
he never told me what the symptoms were. It’s difficult to explain his
secretiveness to anybody who didn’t know him. But, look here, if
you’re inclined to think that his story about going to a specialist
was all a lie, you’re on the wrong track.”
“You feel certain of that?”
“Absolutely certain. Look at his position. In two years’ time he was
due to get a whacking annuity from your company if he lived. He was
prepared to drop his claim if the company would pay back half his
premiums. You’ve heard that, I expect? Well, where was the sense of
that, unless he really thought he was going to die?”
“You can’t think of any other reason for his wanting to do himself in?
Just bored with life, don’t you know, or what not?”
“Talk sense, Mr. Bredon. You know as well as I do that all the
suicides one hears of come from money troubles, or disappointment in
love, or sheer melancholia, There’s no question of money troubles; his
lawyers will tell you that. He was not at the time of life when men
fall badly in love, bachelors anyhow; and his name was never coupled
with a woman’s. And as for melancholia, nobody who knew him could
suspect him of it.”
“I see you’re quite convinced that it was suicide. No question of
accident, you think, or of dirty work at the crossroads? These rich
men have enemies, don’t they?”
“In story-books. But I doubt if any living soul would have laid hands
on Mottram. And as for accident, how would you connect it with all
this yarn about the specialist? And why was the door of his room
locked when he died? You can ask the servants at Pullford; they’ll
tell you that his room was never locked when he was at home; and the
Boots here will tell you that he had orders to bring in shaving-water
first thing.”
“Oh, his door was locked, was it? Fact is, I’ve heard very little
about how the thing was discovered. I suppose you were one of the
party when the body was found?”
“I was. I’m not likely to forget it. Not that I’ve any objection to
suicide; mark you, I think it’s a fine thing, very often; and the
Christian condemnation of it merely echoes a private quarrel between
St. Augustine and some heretics of his day. But it breaks you up
rather when you find a man you said ‘Good-night’ to the night before
lying there all gassed. . . . However, you want to know the details.
The Boots tried to get in with the shaving-water, and found the door
locked; tried to look through the keyhole and couldn’t; came round to
me and told me about it. I was afraid something must be wrong, and I
didn’t quite like breaking down the door with only the Boots to help
me. Then I looked out of the window, and saw the doctor here, a man
called Ferrers, going down to take his morning bath. The Boots went
and fetched him, and he agreed the only thing was to break down the
door. Well, that was easier than we thought. There was a beastly smell
of gas about, of course, even in the passage. The doctor went up to
the gas, you know, and found it turned off. I don’t know how that
happened; the tap’s very loose, anyhow, and I fancy he may have turned
it off himself without knowing it. Then he went to the bed, and it
didn’t take him a couple of minutes to find out that poor old Mottram
was dead, and what he’d died of. The key was found on the inside of
the door, turned so that the lock was fastened. Between you and me, I
have a feeling that Leyland is wondering about that tap. But it’s
obvious that nobody got into the room, and dead men don’t turn off
taps. I can’t piece it together except as suicide myself. I’m afraid
your company will be able to call me as a witness.”
“Well, of course it’s all jam to them. Not that they mind coughing up
much; but it’s the principle of the thing, you see. They don’t like to
encourage suicide. By the way, can you tell me who the heirs are? What
I mean is, I suppose a man doesn’t insure his life and then take it
unless he makes certain who comes in for the bullion?”
“The heirs, as I was saying at supper, are local people. Actually a
nephew, I believe—I didn’t want to say more at the time, because I
think between ourselves that Mr. Pulteney shows rather too much
curiosity. But Mottram quarrelled with this young fellow for some
reason—he owns the big shop here; and I’m pretty certain he won’t be
mentioned in the will.”
“Then you don’t know who the lucky fellow is?”
“Charities, I suppose. Mottram never discussed it with me. But I
imagine you could find out from the solicitors, because it’s bound to
be common property before long in any case.”
Bredon consulted, or affected to consult, a list of entries in his
pocketbook. “Well, that’s awfully kind of you. I think that’s all I
wanted to ask. Must think me a beastly interfering sort of fellow. Oh,
one other thing—is your room anywhere near the one Mr. Mottram had?
Would you have heard any sounds in the night, I mean, if there’d been
anything going on in his room above the ordinary?”
“My room’s exactly above, and my window must have been open. If there
were any suspicion of murder, I should be quite prepared to give
evidence that there was nothing in the nature of a violent struggle.
You see, I sleep pretty light, and that night I didn’t get to sleep
till after twelve. It was seven o’clock in the morning when we found
him, and the doctor seemed to think he’d been dead some hours. I heard
nothing at all from downstairs.”
“Well, I’m tremendously obliged to you. Perhaps we’d better be
wandering back, eh? You’re unmarried, of course, so you don’t have
people fussing about you when you sit out of an evening.” In this
happy vein of rather foolish good fellowship Bredon conducted his
fellow guest back to the inn; and it is to be presumed that Brinkman
did not feel that he had spent the evening in the company of a
Napoleonic brain.