A Morning with the Haberdasher
The sun rose bright the next morning, as if it had heard there was a
funeral in contemplation and was determined to be there. The party at
the _Load of Mischief_ rose considerably later, and more or less
coincided at the breakfast table. “I am afraid we shall be losing
you,” said Mr. Pulteney to Angela. “A fortunate crime privileged us
with your presence; when the mortal remains of it have been put away I
suppose that your husband’s work here is done? Unless, of course, Mrs.
Davis’s eggs and bacon have determined you to stay on here as a
holiday.”
“I really don’t know what we are doing, Mr. Pulteney. My husband, of
course, will have to write a report for those tiresome people at the
office, and that will take a little time. Why do men always take a
whole day to write a report? I don’t suppose we shall be leaving till
to-morrow in any case. Perhaps you will have caught a fish by then.”
“If you would only consent to stay till that happens we should all
congratulate ourselves. But, seriously, it will be a deprivation. I
came to this hotel feeling that I was foredoomed to solitude, or the
company, now and again, of a stray bagman. Instead, I have found the
place a feast of reason; and I shall regret the change.”
“You’ll still have Mr. Brinkman.”
“What is Brinkman? A man who cannot tell beer from cider with his eyes
shut—Ah, here he is! I have been lamenting the loss Mr. and Mrs.
Bredon will be to our desert island. But you too, I suppose, will be
for Pullford again before the funeral bake-meats are cold?”
“Me? Oh, I don’t know. . . . My plans are rather vague. The house at
Pullford is almost shut up, everybody except the housekeeper away. I
daresay I shall stay on a bit. And then, I suppose, go to London to
look for another job.”
“With better auspices, I hope. Well, you deserve a rest before you
settle down to the collar again. Talking of collars” (he addressed
himself to the barmaid, who had just come in with more eggs and
bacon), “I wonder if you could represent to Mrs. Davis the
desirability of sending some of my clothes to the wash?”
“Raight-ho,” said the barmaid, unconcernedly.
“I thank you; you gratify my least whim. Ah, here is Mr. Leyland! I
trust you have slept off the weariness induced by the Coroner’s
allocution yesterday?”
“Quite, thanks,” said Leyland, grinning. “Good-morning, Mrs. Bredon.
Good-morning, Bredon; I wonder if you could give me ten minutes or a
quarter of an hour after breakfast? . . . No, no porridge, thanks;
just eggs and bacon.”
“Yes, rather. We might stroll back to the mill-house, if you don’t
mind, for I rather think I dropped a packet of pipe-papers there. In
fact, I think I’ll go on there and wait for you. No hurry.”
It was some twenty minutes before Leyland turned up, and almost at the
moment of his arrival both men heard a very faint click behind them,
as if somebody on the further side of the wall, in walking gently, had
dislodged a loose stone. They exchanged an instantaneous glance, then
Leyland opened up the pre-arranged conversation. There was something
curiously uncanny about this business of talking entirely for the
benefit of a concealed audience, but they both carried off the
situation creditably.
“Well,” began Bredon, “you’re still hunting for murderers?”
“For a murderer, to be accurate. It doesn’t take two men to turn on a
gas-jet. And when I say I’m hunting for him, I’m not exactly doing
that; I’m hunting him. The motive’s clear enough, and the method’s
clear enough, apart from details, but I want to make my case a little
stronger before I take any action.”
“You’ve applied for a warrant, you say?”
“Against Simmonds, yes. At least, I wrote last night; though of course
with the posts we have here it won’t reach London till this evening,
and probably late this evening. Meanwhile, I keep him under
observation.”
“You’re still sure he’s your man?”
“I can hardly imagine a stronger case. There’s the motive present, and
a good motive too, half a million pounds. There’s the disposition, a
natural resentment against his uncle for treating him hardly, added to
a conscientious objection to his great wealth and the means by which
he made it. There’s the threat: that letter of ‘Brutus’ will tell in a
law court, if I know anything of juries. There’s the occasion: the
fact of Mottram happening to be down at Chilthorpe. There’s the
facility: we know that he was hand in glove with the barmaid, who
could let him in at any hour of the day or night, who could further
his schemes and cover his traces. Finally, there is the actual
coincidence of his whereabouts: I can bring testimony to prove that he
was hanging round the _Load of Mischief_ at a time when all honest
teetotallers ought to be in bed. There’s only one thing more that I
want, and only one thing on the other side that would make me hold my
hand.”
“What’s the one thing you want?”
“Definite evidence to connect him with the actual room in which
Mottram was sleeping. If he’d dropped anything there, so much as a
match-head; if he’d left even a finger-mark about anywhere, I’d have
the noose round his neck. But if you haven’t got just that last detail
of evidence juries are often slow to convict. I could tell you of
murderers who are at large now simply because we couldn’t actually
connect them with the particular scene of the crime or with the
particular weapon the crime was committed with.”
Bredon could not help admiring the man. It was obvious that he was
still allowing for the possibility of Brinkman’s guilt and was
accordingly advising Brinkman, whom he knew to be hidden round the
corner, to manufacture some clue which would point to Simmonds, and
thereby to give himself away. Bredon could not help wondering whether
this was the real purpose of the colloquy, and whether he himself was
not being kept in the dark. However, he had his sailing orders, and
continued to play up to them.
“And the one thing which would make you hold your hand?”
“Why, if I could get satisfactory proof that Simmonds knew of the
existence of that codicil. You see, we know that Simmonds did not
stand to gain anything by murdering his uncle, because, in fact, his
uncle had signed away all his expectations to the Bishop of Pullford.
Now, if I could feel certain that Simmonds knew where he stood; knew
that there was nothing coming to him as next of kin—why, then the
motive would be gone, and with the motive my suspicions. The fact that
he disliked his uncle, the fact that he disapproved of his uncle,
wouldn’t make him murder his uncle. It’s a humiliating fact, but you
don’t ever get a crime of this sort without some _quid pro quo_ in the
form of hard cash. If I felt sure that Simmonds knew he was cut out of
the will altogether, then I’d acquit him, or be prepared to acquit
him. If, on the other hand, somebody could produce good reason for
thinking that Simmonds was expecting to profit by his uncle’s will,
then my case would be proportionately strengthened.”
Once more Bredon listened with admiration. The man who was concealed
behind the wall had been Mottram’s own secretary, more likely than any
other man living to know how the facts stood. And Leyland was
appealing to him, if he had any relevant knowledge about Simmonds’s
expectations, to produce it; if he had none, to forge it, and thereby
give himself away. The game began to thrill him in spite of himself.
“And meanwhile, what of our other friend?”
“Brinkman? Well, as I told you, I don’t suspect Brinkman directly. He
had no motive for the crime, as far as we can see. But he is not
playing the game, and for the life of me I can’t think why. For
instance, he has been ready from the first to back up your idea of
suicide. In fact, it seems to have been he who first mentioned the
word suicide in connexion with this business. He told you, for
example, that he thought Dr. Ferrers must have shut off the main
gas-jet by accident. He said, I think you told me, that it was very
loose. As a matter of fact, it was very stiff at the time, and he must
have known that it was stiff; for it was he who borrowed a pair of
pinchers for me when I wanted to loosen it. And there are some other
bits of evidence which I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to mention to
you, which make me look askance at Brinkman’s behaviour. He’s hiding
something, but what?”
“I don’t see what good he can be doing himself by holding back.”
“Precisely. I don’t want to injure the fellow, but I must get at the
truth. I’m writing to-night for a warrant; not because I think he’s
the guilty man but because we must get his evidence somehow, and I
think a taste of prison detention might make him speak out. But of
course it’s bad luck on the fellow, because a record like that,
however much he is cleared, is bound to count against him when he
looks out for a new job. It’s possible that he’s shielding Mottram’s
reputation, or it’s possible that he’s afraid of coming under
suspicion himself, or it’s possible that he’s simply lost his head,
and, having no one to consult, can’t make up his mind what to do. But
he’s cutting his own throat; there’s no doubt about that. I can’t
think he’s really guilty, or why hasn’t he skipped? For all we could
do, he could be in Vienna in a couple of days, and we none the wiser.
Yet he stays on, and stays on as if there was some end to be gained by
it.”
“But if he went off you could arrest him on suspicion, couldn’t you?”
“Could I? Hardly on what I know at present. I’m looking forward, you
see, to Simmonds’s evidence when he’s arrested. I know that type,
anæmic, nervous; once he’s arrested, with any luck, we can make him
tell us the whole story; and then, if Brinkman really has been up to
anything, it will be too late for him to get clear. But, as I say, I
don’t believe Brinkman is a wrong ’un. If only he’d have the sense to
confide in me—or in you, if he’s afraid of the police. . . . Well, I
wanted to tell you all this, so that you’ll know where you are in
dealing with Simmonds. Mrs. Bredon told me you were hoping to get a
look at him to-day.”
“That’s the idea. To tell the truth, I think I’d better be starting
now, because it’s easier to have a private interview with him if I go
into the shop before the rush hour begins. Not that the rush hour at
Chilthorpe is likely to be very formidable, but I don’t want to have
our _tête-à-tête_ interrupted by old ladies matching ribbons.”
Bredon strolled off. Leyland stayed where he was till he guessed the
coast would be clear, and then went cautiously round to the back of
the building. He found what he had expected, and hoped for. The
cigarette, which they had left the night before in the place where it
lay, had by now been carefully removed.
When Bredon reached the shop he found that Fortune was smiling on him.
There seemed to be only one attendant about besides Simmonds himself,
and this was a freckled, sandy-haired youth who was cleaning the front
windows with every appearance of deliberation. Nor were there any
rival shoppers so early on a Chilthorpe morning. Mr. Simmonds
approached the handkerchief question with the air of being just the
right man to come to. Other things, you felt, were to be bought in
this shop: teethers, for example, and walking-sticks, and liquorice,
and so on. But when you came to _handkerchiefs_, there you had found a
specialist, a man who had handled handkerchiefs these fifteen years
past. Something stylish, perhaps, was required? This with a glance at
the customer, as if to size him up and recognise the man of taste.
“The _plain_ ones? Just plain white, you mean, sir? Well, it’s a
curious thing, but I’m not certain I can lay my hand on one of them.
You see, there’s more demand for the coloured ones, a bit of edging,
anyhow. And, you see, we haven’t got in our new stock yet.” (They
never have got in their new stock yet at Simmonds’s.) “Three weeks ago
I could have done you a very good line in the plain ones, but I’m
rather afraid we’re right out. I’ll just see.”
This was followed by an avalanche of drawers, containing handkerchiefs
of every conceivable variety that was not plain. A violent horseshoe
pattern that ran through all the gamut of the colours; a kind of
willow pattern; a humorous series featuring film stars; striped edges,
spotted edges, check edges—but no plain. From time to time Mr.
Simmonds would draw attention to the merits of the exhibits, as if it
were just his luck that his customer should be a man so unadventurous
in taste. “Now, that’s a very good number; you couldn’t get a better
line than that, not if it was a coloured handkerchief you were
wanting. . . . No, no, sir, no trouble at all; I daresay perhaps I may
be able to lay my hand on the article you require. . . . You don’t
fancy those, now? Those come very cheap because they’re bankrupt
stock. Just you feel that, sir, and see what a lot of wear there is in
it! . . . Yes, that’s right, they’re a little on the gay side, sir,
but we don’t get any real demand, not for the plain ones; people don’t
seem to fancy them nowadays. Mind you, if you’ll be staying on here
for a day or two, I could get you some; we shall be sending into
Pullford the day after to-morrow. But at the moment we seem to be
right out of them. . . . Oh, you’ll take the check ones . . . half a
dozen? Thank you, sir; you’ll find they’re a very good line; you could
go a long way and not find another handkerchief just like that one.
It’s a handkerchief we’ve stocked many years now, and never had any
difficulty in getting rid of it. And the next article, please?”
But Bredon did not meditate any more purchases. He had begun to
realize that in Chilthorpe you bought not the thing you wanted but the
thing Mr. Simmonds had in stock. While the handkerchiefs were being
wrapped, he sat down on a high, uncomfortable chair close to the
counter, and opened conversation about the deceased. Simmonds might
have quarrelled with his uncle, but surely he would take the gloomy
pride of the uneducated in his near relationship to a corpse.
“I’m afraid you’ve had a sad loss, Mr. Simmonds.”
Now, why did the man suddenly turn a white, haggard face toward his
visitor, starting as if the remark had been something out of the way?
There was no secret about the relationship; it had been mentioned
publicly at the inquest. Leyland had insisted that in all his
interviews with Simmonds he had failed to observe any sign of
discomposure. Yet this morning a mere allusion to Mottram seemed to
throw his nephew all out of gear. The cant phrases of his craft had
flowed from him mechanically enough, but once his customer began to
talk the gossip of the village all the self-possession fell from him
like a mask, and he stood pale and quivering.
“As you say, sir. Very melancholy event. My uncle, sir, he was. Oh,
yes, sir. We didn’t see him much down here—we hadn’t anything to do
with him, sir. We didn’t get on very well—what I mean is, he didn’t
think much of me. No, sir. But he was my uncle, sir. Over in Pullford
he lived; hasn’t lived here for many years now, though it was his own
place.”
“Still, blood’s thicker than water, isn’t it?”
“What’s that, sir? Oh, I see what you mean; yes, sir. I’m seeing to
the funeral and all that. Excuse me one moment, sir. Sam! Just take a
pair of steps and put them boxes back, there’s a good lad. And there’s
nothing else to-day, sir?”
There was nothing else. Bredon had meant to say a good deal, but he
had reckoned on dealing with a smug, self-possessed tradesman, who
might unsuspectingly drop a few hints that were worth knowing.
Instead, he found a man who started at shadows, who was plainly alive
with panic. He went back to his hotel full of disquiet; there went his
twenty pounds, and the company’s half-million. And yet, what did it
all mean? Why did Simmonds tremble in the presence of Bredon when he
had shewn no trace of embarrassment in talking to Leyland, who was an
official of the police? The whole tangle of events seemed to become
more complicated with every effort that was made to unravel it.