Death in a White Tie (27 page)

“What?” said his wife. Alleyn now realized that she was slightly deaf.

“Puzzling,” shouted Mr Harris.

“My husband’s memory is not very good,” explained Mrs Harris smiling gently at Alleyn and Fox. “He was greatly shaken by his cycling accident some months ago. I suppose you have called about the insurance.”

Raising his voice Alleyn embarked once more on his recital. This time he was not interrupted, but as neither of the Harrises gave any sign of understanding, it was impossible to tell whether or not he spoke in vain. By the time he had finished, Mr Harris had adopted his former disconcerting glare. Mrs Harris, however, turned to her husband and said:

“You remember the blood on the carpet, Walter? At dear old Falconbridge?”

“Dear me, yes. Now
that’s
what I was trying to recollect. Of course it was. Poor fellow. Poor fell-oh!”

“Then you
do
remember?” Alleyn cried.

“Indeed I do,” said Mrs Harris reproachfully. “The poor young wife wrote us such a charming letter, thanking us for the little we had been able to do for him. I would have liked to answer it but unfortunately my husband lost it.”

“Edith, I have discovered dear old Worsley’s letter. It was in my pocket. Fancy!”

“Fancy, dear, yes.”

“Talking of letters,” said Alleyn to Mrs Harris. “Can you by any chance remember anything about a letter that was lost on the occasion of Captain O’Brien’s accident? I think you were asked if it had been found in the vicarage.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch—”

Alleyn repeated it.

“To be sure I do,” said Mrs Harris. “Perfectly.”

“You were unable to give any information about this letter?”

“On the contrary.”

“What!”

“On the contrary,” repeated Mrs Harris firmly. “I sent it after him.”

“
After who
?” roared Fox so loudly that even Mrs Harris gave a little jump. “I’m sure I beg pardon, sir,” said Fox hastily, “I don’t know what came over me.” He opened his notebook in some confusion.

“Mrs Harris,” said Alleyn, “will you please tell us everything you can remember about this letter?”

“Yes, please do, Edith,” said her husband unexpectedly. “She’ll find it for you,” he added in an aside. “Don’t distress yourselves.”

“Well,” began Mrs Harris. “It’s a long time ago now and I’m afraid I’m rather hazy. It was after they had taken him away, I fancy, that we found it under the couch in the study. That was when we noticed the stain on the carpet you remember, Walter. At first, of course, I thought it was one of my husband’s letters — it was not in an envelope. But when I glanced at it I realized at once that it was not, as it began ‘Dear Daddy’ and we have no children.”

“ ‘Dear Daddy,’ ” repeated Alleyn.

“I decided afterwards that it was perhaps ‘Dear Paddy’ but as my husband’s name is Walter Bernard it didn’t signify. ‘Why,’ I said, or something of that sort. ‘Why, it must have dropped out of that poor fellow’s coat when the ambulance man examined him.’ And — of course, I remember it now as clearly as if it was yesterday — and I said to little Violet: ‘Pop on your bicycle and take it to the hospital as quickly as you can, dear, because they may be looking for it.’ So little Violet—”

“Who was she, please?” asked Alleyn rather breathlessly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“
Who was little Violet
?” shouted Alleyn.

“My small niece. My husband’s brother’s third daughter. She was spending her holidays with us. She is grown up now and has a delightful post in London with a Lady Carrados.”

“Thank you,” said Alleyn. “Please go on.”

But there was not much more to tell. Apparently Violet Harris had bicycled off with Paddy O’Brien’s letter and had returned to say she had given it to the gentleman who had brought the lady in the motor-car. The gentleman had been sitting in the motor-car outside the hospital. As far as Mrs Harris could state, and she and her husband went into a mazed avuncular family history to prove their point, little Violet had been fifteen years old at the time. Alleyn wrote out her statement, shorn of its interminable parentheses, and she signed it. Throughout the interview neither she nor her husband gave the faintest sign of any form of curiosity. Apparently it did not strike either of them as singular that the interest in a letter lost eighteen years ago should suddenly be excited to such a pitch that CID officers thought it necessary to seek for signed statements in the heart of Buckinghamshire.

They insisted on taking Alleyn and Fox round their garden. Alleyn hadn’t the heart to refuse and besides he had a liking for gardens. Mrs Harris gave them each a bunch of lavender and rosemary, which flowers, she said, were less conspicuous for gentlemen to carry than the gayer blossoms of summer. The sight of Fox solemnly grasping a posy in his enormous fist and examining a border of transplanted pansies was almost too much for his superior officer. It was two o’clock when the tour of the garden was completed.

“You must come in whenever you are passing,” said Mrs Harris, blinking cordially at Alleyn, “and I shall remember what you say about your mother’s herb garden.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed Mr Harris. “Whenever you are passing. Of course. Anybody from dear old Falconbridge is doubly welcome.”

They stood side by side at the gate and waved, rather in the manner of children, as Alleyn turned the car and drove away down Oakapple Lane.

“Well!” ejaculated Fox. “Well!”

“Not another word,” said Alleyn, “until we get to that pub outside Barbicon-Bramley. Do you realize we’ve had no lunch? I refuse to utter another word until I’ve drunk a pint of bitter.”

“And some bread and cheese and pickles,” said Fox. “Pickles with plenty of onions in them.”

“Lord! Lord! Fox, what a choice! Now I come to think of it, though, it sounds damn good. ‘Bread and cheese and pickles,’ Fox, it’s what we need. New white bread, mouse-trap cheese, home-made pickles and bitter.”

“That’s the idea, Mr Alleyn. You’re a great gourmet,” said Fox who had taught himself French, “and don’t think I haven’t enjoyed some of those dinners you’ve given me when everything seemed to sort of slide into something else. I have. But when you’re famished and in the English countryside you can’t beat bread and cheese and pickles.”

The pub provided them with these delicacies. They took about a quarter of an hour over their meal and then set out again.

“Now then,” said Alleyn.

“The thing that beats me,” said Fox, wiping his short moustache with his handkerchief, “is little Violet. We knew she was a niece of this old gentleman’s but, by gum, we didn’t know she was staying there at the time, now, did we?”

“No, Brer Fox, we didn’t.”

“I suppose she may not know it herself,” continued Fox. “I mean to say, Miss Violet Harris may not realize that Lady Carrados was this Mrs O’Brien whose husband was brought into her uncle’s vicarage when she was a kid of fifteen.”

“Quite possible. I hope she remembers the bicycle ride. We’ll have to jog her memory, I dare say.”

“Yes. Now I reckon, on what we’ve heard, that it was Carrados who took that letter from little Violet. Carrados, sitting in the car outside the hospital, while the poor chap who’d got the letter from Australia was dying inside. And then, later on, when there’s all the fuss about a missing letter, what does he do?”

Alleyn knew this question was purely rhetorical and didn’t interrupt.

“He tells the widow,” said Fox; “he tells the widow that he’s made every inquiry and there isn’t a letter to be found.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn. “No doubt he tells her that.”

“Right. Now, why does he do that? I reckon it’s because Sir Herbert Carrados is what you might call a bit of a moral coward with a kind of mental twist. What these psycho-johnnies call a repression or some such thing. As I see it he didn’t want to admit to having seen the letter because he’d actually read it. This Australian bloke knew Captain O’Brien had married a loony and wrote to tell him he was now a widower. If what Lady Carrados told you was correct and he’d fancied her for a long time, that letter must have shaken him up a bit. Now perhaps he says to himself, being a proud, snobbish sort of chap and yet having set his heart on her, that he’ll let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Cut the whole thing dead? Yes. That’s sound enough. It’s in character.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Fox in a gratified voice. “But all the same he doesn’t destroy the letter. Or does he?”

“That,” said Alleyn, “is exactly what we’ve got to find out.”

“Well, sir, we’ve got our suspicions, haven’t we?”

“Yes. Before this evening, Fox, I want to make certainties of our suspicions.”

“By gum, Mr Alleyn, if we can do that we’ll have made a tidy job of this case. Don’t count your chickens, as well I know, but if we can get an arrest within two days after the crime, in a complicated case like this, we’re not doing too badly, now are we?”

“I suppose not, you old warrior, I suppose not.” Alleyn gave a short sigh. “I wish—” he said. ”Oh God, Fox, I do wish he hadn’t died. No good maundering. I also wish very much that we’d been able to find some trace of something, just
something
in the taxi. But not a thing.”

“The funeral’s at three o’clock tomorrow, isn’t it?” asked Fox.

“Yes. Lady Mildred has asked me to be one of the bearers. It’s pretty strange under the circumstances, but I’d like to do it. And I’d like to think we had our killer locked up before then. When we get back, Fox, we’ll have to arrange for these people to come round to the Yard. We’ll want Miss Harris, Bridget O’Brien, her mother, Carrados himself, Davidson, Withers, Dimitri and Mrs Halcut-Hackett. I’ll see Lady Carrados alone first. I want to soften the shock a little if it’s possible.”

“When shall we get them to come, sir?”

“It’ll be four o’clock by the time we’re back to the Yard. I think we’ll make it this evening. Say nine o’clock. It’s going to be devilish tricky. I’m counting on Dimitri losing his head. It’s a cool head, blast it, and he may keep his wits about him. Talking of wits, there’s the gallant Captain to be reckoned with. Unless I’m a Dutchman, Donald Potter’s given me enough in his statement to lock the gallant Captain up for a nice long stretch. That’s some comfort.”

They were silent until they got as far as the Cromwell Road and then Fox said: “I suppose we are right, Mr Alleyn. I know that seems a pretty funny thing to say at this stage, but it’s a worrying business and that’s a fact. It’s the trickiest line of evidence I’ve
ever
come across. We seem to be hanging our case on the sort of things you usually treat with a good deal of suspicion.”

“Don’t I know it. No, Fox, I think it’ll hold firm. It depends on what these people say in their second interviews tonight, of course. If we can establish the facts about the two cigarette-cases, the secret drawer, the telephone conversation and the stolen letter, we’re right. Good Lord, that sounds like a list of titles from the old Sherlock Holmes stories. I think part of the charm of those excellent tales lies in Watson’s casual but enthralling references to cases we never hear of again.”

“The two cigarette-cases,” repeated Fox slowly, “the secret drawer, the telephone conversation, and the stolen letter. Yes. Yes, that’s right. You may say we hang our case on those four hooks.”

“The word ‘hang,’ ” said Alleyn grimly, “is exceedingly apposite. You may.”

He drove Fox to the Yard.

“I’ll come up with you and see if anything fresh has come in,” he said.

They found reports from officers who were out on the job. Dimitri’s men reported that François had gone to the local stationers and bought a copy of this morning’s
Times
. The stationer had told the Yard man that Dimitri as a rule took the
Daily Express
.

Alleyn laid the report down.

“Beat up a
Times
, Brer Fox.”

Fox went out. He was away for some time. Alleyn brought his file up to date and lit his pipe. Then he rang up Lady Carrados.

“Evelyn? I’ve rung you up to ask if you and your husband and Bridget will come to my office at the Yard tonight. It’s some more tidying up of this affair. If possible I’d like to have a word with you first. Would you rather it was here or in your house?”

“In your office,
please
, Roderick. It would be easier. Shall I come now?”

“If you will. Don’t be fussed. I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“I’ll come at once,” said the faint voice.

Fox returned with a
Times
which he laid on Alleyn’s desk. He pointed a stubby finger at the personal column.

“What about the third from the top?” he said.

Alleyn read it aloud.

“Um,” said Alleyn. “Has daddy had anything else to say to Childie during the last week or so?”

“Not during the last fortnight, anyway. I’ve looked up the files.”

“There’s nothing else in the agony column. The others are old friends, aren’t they?”

“That’s right.”

“We’d better ask Father
Times
about Daddy.”

“I’ll do that,” said Fox, “and I’ll get going on these people for tonight.”

“Thank you, Fox. I’ve tackled Lady Carrados who is coming to see me now. If you’ve time I’d be glad if you’d fix the others. I ought to go and see Lady Mildred about the arrangements for tomorrow.”

“You’ll have time for that later on.”

“Yes. I must report to the AC before this evening. I’ll go along now, I think, and see if he’s free. Ask them to show Lady Carrados up here, Fox, and ring through when she arrives.”

“Very good, Mr Alleyn.”

Alleyn saw the Assistant Commissioner’s secretary, who sent him in to the great man. Alleyn laid the file on the desk. The AC disregarded it.

“Well, Rory, how goes it? I hear you’ve got half the Yard mudlarking on Chelsea Embankment and the other half tailing the aristocracy. What’s it all about?” asked the AC, who had been kept perfectly
au fait
with the case but whose favourite pose was one of ignorance. “I suppose you want me to read this damn nonsense?” he added, laying his hand on the file.

“If you will, sir. I’ve summed-up at the end. With your approval I’m collecting the relevant people here tonight and if the interviews go the right way I hope to be able to make an arrest. If you agree, I’d like a blank warrant.”

“You’re a pretty cool customer, aren’t you?” grunted the AC. “And if the interviews go all wrong you return the warrant and think of something else? That it?”

“Yes, sir. That’s it.”

“See here, Rory, our position in this affair is that we’ve got to have a conviction. If your customer gets off on this sort of evidence, opposing counsel is going to make us look like so many Aunt Sallies. It’s so damn shaky. Can’t you hear what old Harrington-Barr will do with you if he’s briefed? Make you look a boiled egg, my good man, unless you’ve got a damning admission or two to shove at the jury.
And
all this blackmail stuff. How are you going to get any of these people to charge their blackmailer? You know what people are over blackmail.”

“Yes, sir. I do rather hope for a damning admission.”

“Do you, by Gad! All right, all right. See them in here. In my room. I’d better know the worst at once, I suppose.” He scowled at Alleyn. “This goes a bit close to you, doesn’t it? Lord Robert was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

“He was, sir, yes.”

“Ugh! He was a nice little chap. I understand the FO is making tender enquiries. In case a foreign power remembers him pottering about twenty years ago and has decided to assassinate him. Silly asses. Well, I’m sorry you’ve had this knock, Rory. It doesn’t seem to have cramped your style. Quick work, if it’s accurate.”

“If!” said Alleyn. “I hope to Heaven we haven’t gone wrong.”

“What time’s the dénouement tonight?”

“Nine o’clock, sir.”

“All right. Trot ’em along here. Thank you, Rory.”

“Thank you, sir.”

On his return to his own room he found Fox was waiting for him.

“Lady Carrados is downstairs, sir.”

“Go and bring her up, Fox, will you?”

Fox turned in the doorway.

“I’ve got on to
The Times
,” he said. “They were a bit dignified about it but I know one of the chaps who deals with the agony-column notices and got hold of him. He told me the Childie Darling thing came by mail with a postal order for double rates and a request that it should appear, very particular, in this morning’s edition. The note said the advertiser would call to collect the change, if any, and was signed W.A.K. Smith, address GPO, Erith.”

“Postmark?”

“They’d lost the envelope but he’ll look for it. The writing,” said Fox, “was in script on common notepaper.”

“Was it indeed?” murmured Alleyn.

“There’s one other thing,” said Fox. “The reports have come through from the post offices. A clerk at the Main Western District says that during the rush hour yesterday someone left a parcel on the counter. He found it later on in the day. It was soft, about the right weight and had five bob in tuppenny stamps on it, one and fivepence more than was necessary. He remembers the address was to somewhere in China and it was written in script. So my Private Hoo Flung Dung may have been a fair guess. We’ve got on to Mount Pleasant and it’s too late. A parcels post went out to China this afternoon.”

“Blast!” said Alleyn.

“I’ll be off,” said Fox, “and get her ladyship.”

While he waited for Lady Carrados, Alleyn cut the little notice out of
The Times
. After a moment’s consideration he unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out Mrs Halcut-Hackett’s gold cigarette-case. He opened it and neatly gummed the notice inside the lid.