The Literary Lord Peter

 

CHAPTER XI

 

Policeman's Lot

 

 

Elbow: What is't your worship's pleasure I shall do with

this wicked caitiff?

Escalus: Truly, officer, because he hath some offences in

him that thou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let him

continue in his courses till thou know'st what they are.

 

William Shakespeare: Measure for Measure.

 

 

The distressful Mr. Kirk had in the meantime spent a strenuous evening. He was a slow-thinking man and a kindly one, and it was with reluctance and the expenditure of severe mental labour that he hammered out a procedure for himself in this unusual situation.

 

His sergeant having returned to drive him over to Broxford, he sank back in the passenger's seat, his hat pulled over his eyes and his thoughts revolving silently in this squirrel-cage of mystification. One thing he saw clearly: the coroner must be persuaded to take as little evidence as possible at the inquest and adjourn sine die pending further investigation. Fortunately, the law now provided for such a course, and if only Mr. Perkins would not be sticky, everything might pass off very well. The wretched Joe Sellon would have, of course, to speak to seeing Mr. Noakes alive at nine o'clock; but with luck he would not have to go into details about the conversation. Mrs. Ruddle was the stumbling-block: she liked to use her tongue—and then there was that unfortunate business of Aggie Twitterton's hens, which had left her with a grudge against the police. Also, of course, there was the awkward fact that one or two people in the village had wagged their heads when Mr. Noakes lost his pocket-book, and had hinted that Martha Ruddle might know something about it; she would not readily forgive Joe Sellon for that misunderstanding. Could one, without actually uttering threats or using improper methods, suggest that over-informativeness in the witness-box might involve an inquiry into the matter of paraffin? Or was it safer merely to hint to the coroner that too much talk from Martha would tend to hamper the police in the execution of their duty?

 

("Half a mo', Blades," said the Superintendent, aloud, at this point in his meditations. "What's that chap doing, obstructing the traffic like that?—Here, you! don't you know better than to park that lorry of yours on a blind corner? If you want to change your wheel you must go further along and get her on to the verge.... All right, my lad, that's quite enough of that.... Let's have a look at your licence....")

 

As for Joe Sellon... This business of parking on bends, now, he wouldn't have it. A dashed sight more dangerous than fast driving by a man who knew how to drive. The police liked to be fair; it was the magistrates who were obsessed by miles per hour. All corners should be approached dead slow—all right, because there might be some fool sitting in the middle of the road; but equally, nobody should sit in the middle of the road, because there might be some fool coming round the corner. The thing was fifty-fifty, and the blame should be distributed fifty-fifty; that was only just. In a routine matter like that, it was easy to see one's way. But Joe Sellon, now... Well, whatever happened, Joe must be taken off the Noakes case p.d.q. It wasn't proper to have him investigating it as things were. Why, come to think of it, Mrs. Kirk had been reading a book only the other day in which one of the police in charge of the case turned out actually to have done the murder. He distinctly remembered laughing, and saying, "It's wonderful what these writer-fellows think of." That Lady Peter Wimsey, who wrote these books—she'd be ready enough to believe a tale like that. So, no doubt, would other people.

 

("Was that Bill Skipton getting over the stile, Blades? Seemed a bit anxious to avoid notice. Better keep your eye on him. Mr. Raikes has been complaining about his birds—shouldn't wonder if Bill was up to his old tricks again."

 

"Yes, sir.")

 

It all went to show that an officer couldn't take too much trouble about getting to know his men. A kindly inquiry—a word in season—and Sellon wouldn't have got himself into this jam. How much did Sergeant Foster know about Sellon? One must look into that. Rather a pity, in a way, that Foster was a bachelor and a teetotaller and belonged to a rather strict sect of Plymouth Brethren or something. A most trustworthy officer, but not very easy for a young fellow to confide in. Perhaps one ought to give more attention to these traits of character. Handling men was born in some people—this Lord Peter, for instance. Sellon had never seen him before, yet he was readier to explain himself to him than to his own superior officer. One couldn't resent that, of course; it was only natural. What was a gentleman for, except to take your difficulties to? Why, look at the old squire and his lady, when Kirk was a lad—everybody in and out of the big house all day with their troubles. That sort was dying out, more's the pity. Nobody could go to this new man that had the place now—for one thing, half the time he wasn't there, and for another, he'd always lived in a town and didn't understand the way things worked in the country.... But how Joe could be such a blamed fool as to tell his lordship a lie—which was the one thing that sort of gentleman would never overlook; you could see his face change when he heard it. You needed a pretty good reason for telling a lie to a gentleman that was taking an interest in you—and, well, the reason you might have didn't bear thinking of.

 

The car drew up before Mr. Perkins's house, and Kirk heaved himself out with a deep sigh. Maybe Joe was telling the truth after all; he must look into that. Meanwhile, do the thing that's nearest—was that Charles Kingsley or Longfellow?—and, dear, dear, it just showed you what happened when lame dogs were left to get over stiles on their own three legs.

 

 

The coroner proved amenable to the suggestion that, in view of investigations now proceeding, based on information received, the inquest should be kept as formal as possible. Kirk was glad Mr. Perkins was a lawyer; medical coroners sometimes took the oddest views of their own importance and legal powers. Not that the police were anxious for any curtailing of the coroner's privileges; there were times when an inquest came in very handy to elicit information which couldn't be got any other way. The silly public liked to make a fuss about the feelings of witnesses, but that was the public all over—always shouting they wanted to be protected and always getting in your way when you tried to do it for them. Wanting it both ways. No, there was no harm in coroners, only they ought to put themselves under police guidance, that was the way Kirk looked at it. Anyhow, Mr. Perkins didn't seem eager to cause trouble; he had a bad cold, too, and would be all the better pleased to keep things short. Well, that was that. Now about Joe Sellon. Better look in at the station first and see if there was anything special needed attending to.

 

The first thing handed to him when he got there was Joe Sellon's own report. He had interviewed the man Williams, who asserted positively that Crutchley had come in to the garage just before eleven and gone immediately to bed. The two men shared a room, and Williams's bed was between Crutchley's and the door. Williams said he didn't think he could have failed to wake up if Crutchley had gone out during the night, because the door squeaked badly on its hinges. He was a light sleeper. As a matter of fact, he had woken up, about 1 o'clock, with a fellow blowing his horn and knocking at the garage door. Turned out to be a commercial vehicle with a leaking feed, called for repairs and petrol. Crutchley had been asleep then, because Williams saw him when he lit his candle and went down to deal with the vehicle. The window was a small dormer—nobody could get out and down that way, and there were no marks of anybody's having done so.

 

That seemed all right—but, in any case, it didn't amount to anything, since Noakes must have been dead before 9.30, as it seemed. Unless Mrs. Ruddle was lying. And she had no cause to lie, so far as Kirk could see. She had gone out of her way to mention her presence in the paraffin-shed, and she wouldn't do that for nothing. Unless she was telling lies on purpose to get Sellon into trouble. Kirk shook his head: that would be a big assumption to make. Still, lies or no lies, it was a good thing to check all alibis as closely as possible, and this one appeared to be sound. Always supposing Joe Sellon wasn't lying again. Confound it! when it came to not being able to trust your own men.... No doubt about it, Joe must come off this case. And what was more, for form's sake he would have to get Williams's evidence checked again and confirmed—a nuisance, and a waste of time. He asked where Sellon was and learned that, having waited a little in the hope of seeing the Superintendent, he had gone off back to Paggleham about an hour ago. They must have missed him on the road, then, somehow. Why hadn't he come to Talboys?—oh, drat Joe Sellon!

 

Anything else? Nothing much. P.C. Jordan had been called on to deal with a customer at the Royal Oak, who had used insulting language and behaviour to the landlord with conduct tending to provoke a breach of the peace; a woman had reported the loss of a handbag containing 9s.4d., the return half of a ticket, and a latch-key; the sanitary inspector had been in about a case of swine-fever at Datchett's farm; a child had fallen into the river off the Old Bridge, and been dexterously retrieved by Inspector Goudy, who happened to be passing at the time; P.C. Norman had been knocked off his bicycle by a Great Dane under insufficient control and had sprained his thumb; the Noakes affair had been reported by telephone to the Chief Constable, who was in bed with influenza, but wanted an immediate and detailed report in writing; instructions had come through from headquarters that the Essex County Constabulary wanted a sharp look-out kept for a tramping youth aged about seventeen (description) suspected of breaking and entering a house at Saffron Walden (particulars) and stealing a piece of cheese, an Ingersoll watch and a pair of garden-shears valued at three shillings and sixpence, and thought to be making his way through Herts; there was a summons wanted for a chimney afire in South Avenue; a householder had complained about a barking dog; two lads had been brought in for playing at crown and anchor on the steps of the Wesleyan Chapel; and Sergeant Jakes had very competently tracked down and brought to book the miscreant who had improperly rung the fire-alarm on Monday evening: a nice, quiet day. Mr. Kirk listened patiently, distributed sympathy and praise where they were due, and then rang up Pagford and asked for Sergeant Foster. He was out at Snettisley, about that little burglary. Yes, of course. Well, thought Kirk, as he appended his careful signature to a number of routine documents, Datchett's farm was in the Paggleham district; he'd put young Sellon on to that; he couldn't do himself much harm over swine-fever. He telephoned instructions that Sergeant Foster was to report to him as soon as he returned and then, feeling empty, went over to his own quarters to enjoy, as best he might, a supper of beefsteak pie, plum-cake and a pint of mild ale.

 

He was just finishing, and feeling a little better, when Sergeant Foster arrived, self-congratulatory about the progress of the burglary, righteously dutiful about being summoned to Broxford when he ought to have been partaking of his evening meal, and coldly critical of his superior's taste in liquor. Kirk never found it easy to get on with Foster. There was, to begin with, this air of teetotal virtue; he disliked having his evening pint referred to as "alcohol." Then, Foster, though much subordinate to him in rank, was more refined in speech; he had been educated at a bad grammar-school instead of a good elementary school, and never misplaced his h's—though, as for reading good literature or quoting the poets, he couldn't do it and didn't want to. Thirdly, Foster was disappointed; he had, somehow, always missed the promotion he felt to be his due—an excellent officer, but just somehow lacking in something or the other, he could not understand his comparative failure, and suspected Kirk of having a down on him. And fourthly, Foster never did anything that was not absolutely correct; this, perhaps, was his real weakness, for it meant that he lacked imagination, both in his work and in handling the men under him.

 

Kirk, feeling oddly at a disadvantage, in spite of his age and position, waited till Foster had said all he had to say about the Snettisley burglary, and then laid before him the full details of the Talboys affair. The outline of it, Foster of course knew already, since Paggleham was in the Pagford district. In fact, Sellon's original report had come through to him, only ten minutes after the report from Snettisley. Being unable to be in two places at once, he had then rung up Broxford and asked for instructions. Kirk had told him to proceed to Snettisley; he (Kirk) would personally take charge of the murder. This was just the way Kirk was always standing between him and anything important. On his return to Pagford, he had found a curiously unsatisfactory report from Sellon—and no Sellon, nor any news of him. While he had been digesting this, Kirk had sent for him. Well, here he was: he was ready to listen to anything the Superintendent had to tell him. Indeed, it was really time he was told something.

 

He did not, however, like what he was told. And it seemed to him, as the disgraceful narrative boomed on, that he was being blamed—for what? For not acting as a wet-nurse to Joe Sellon's baby, apparently. That was very unfair. Did the Superintendent expect him personally to examine the household budget of every village constable in the Pagford area? He ought to have seen that this young man had "something on his mind"—well, he liked that. Constables were always getting things on their minds—mostly young women, if it wasn't professional jealousies. He had quite enough to do with the men at the Pagford police-station; when it came to married police-officers in small villages, they ought surely to be supposed capable of looking after themselves. If they couldn't keep themselves and their families on the very generous pay and allowance then they ought not to have families. He had seen Mrs. Sellon—a shiftless girl, he thought, pretty before she was married, and dressed in cheap finery. He distinctly remembered warning Sellon against wedding her. If, when Sellon got into financial difficulties he had come to him (as, he quite agreed, he should have done) he would have reminded Sellon that nothing else was to be expected when one flouted the advice of one's superior officer. He would also have pointed out that, by knocking off beer and tobacco, a considerable saving of money might be effected, in addition to the saving of one's soul—always supposing Sellon took any interest in that immortal part of himself. When he (Foster) had been a constable, he had put away a considerable sum out of his pay every week.

 

"Kind hearts," Kirk was saying, "are more than coronets; him as said that lived to wear a coronet himself. Mind you, I ain't saying as you been any way neglectful of your dooty—but it do seem a pity as a young fellow should have his career broke, all for want of a bit of 'elp and guidance. Not to speak of this other suspicion which it's to be hoped won't come to anything."

 

This was more than Foster could stomach in silence. He explained that he had offered help and guidance at the time of Sellon's marriage; it had not been well received. "I told him he was doing a foolish thing and that that girl would be the ruin of him."

 

"Did you?" said Kirk, mildly. "Well, then, perhaps it's no wonder he didn't turn to you when he was in a fix. I dunno as I would myself in his place. You see, Foster, when a young fellow's made up his mind, it ain't no good calling the young woman names. You only alienates him and puts yourself in a position where you can't do no good. When I was courtin' Mrs. K., you don't think I'd have 'eard a word agen her, not from the Chief Constable himself. Not likely. Just you put yourself in his place."

 

Sergeant Foster said briefly that he couldn't put himself in the place of making a fool of himself over a bit of skirt—still less could he understand taking other people's money, defection from duty and failure to make proper reports to one's superior officer.

 

"I couldn't make head or tail of the report Sellon sent in. He dropped it in, didn't seem able to give a proper account of himself to Davidson, who was on duty at the station, and now he's off somewhere and can't be found."

 

"What's that?"

 

"He's not been back home," said Sergeant Foster, "and he's neither rung up nor left a message. I shouldn't be surprised if he'd made tracks."

 

"He was over here, looking for me at 5 o'clock," said Kirk unhappily. "He brought a report from Pagford."

 

"He wrote that out in the station, I'm told," said Foster. "And he left a bunch of shorthand stuff; they're typing it now. Davidson says it doesn't seem to be complete. I suppose it breaks off at the point where——"

 

"What do you expect?" retorted Kirk. "You don't suppose he'd go on taking down his own confession, do you? Be reasonable.... What's worrying me is, that if he was here at five, we ought to have passed him between here and Paggleham, if he was a-going home. I hope he ain't rushed off to do something rash. That 'ud be a nice thing, wouldn't it? Maybe he took the 'bus—but if he did, where's his bike?"

 

"If he took the 'bus he didn't get home by it," said the Sergeant, grimly.

 

"His wife must be worrying. I think we'd better have a look-see into this. We don't want nothing of an unfort'nate nature to 'appen. Now—where could 'e a-got to? You take your bike—no, that won't do—takes too long, and you've had a pretty hard day. I'll send Hart on his motor-bike, to see if anybody's seen Sellon round Pillington way—it's all woods round there—and the river——"

 

"You don't really think——?"

 

"I don't know what to think. I'm going over to see his wife. Shall I give you a lift over? Your bike can be sent back to-morrow. You'll get the 'bus at Paggleham."

 

Sergeant Foster could find nothing to resent in this offer, though his voice sounded injured in accepting it. As far as he could see, there was going to be an unholy row about Joe Sellon, and Kirk, characteristically, was taking steps to see that whatever happened he, Foster, should get the blame. Kirk was relieved when they overtook the local omnibus just outside Paggleham; he could drop his austere companion at once, without suggesting that they should go to Sellon's place together.

 

He found Mrs. Sellon in what Mrs. Ruddle would have called "a state of mind." She looked ready to drop with fright when she opened the door to him, and had evidently been crying. She was fair, pretty in a helpless sort of way, and delicate looking; Kirk noticed, with irritation as well as sympathy, that there was another baby coming. She asked him in, apologising for the state of the room, which was indeed somewhat disorderly. The two-year-old whose arrival in the world was the indirect cause of all Sellon's misfortunes was ramping noisily about, dragging a wooden horse, whose wheels squeaked. The table was laid for a tea now long overdue.

 

"Joe not come in yet?" said Kirk, pleasantly enough.

 

"No," said Mrs. Sellon. "I don't know what's gone of him. Oh, be quiet, Arthur, do!—He's not been in all day and his supper's spoiling.... Oh, Mr. Kirk! Joe ain't in any trouble, is he? Martha Ruddle's been saying such things—Arthur! you bad boy—if you don't give over I'll take that horse away from you."

 

Kirk captured Arthur and stood him firmly between his own massive knees.

 

"Now, you be a good boy," he admonished him. "Grown a lot, ain't he? He'll be getting quite a handful for you. Well, now, Mrs. Sellon—I wanted to have a bit of a talk with you about Joe."

 

Kirk had the advantage of being a local man, having in fact been born at Great Pagford. He had not seen Mrs. Sellon more than twice or thrice before; but he was at least not completely strange and therefore not completely awe-inspiring. Mrs. Sellon was induced to pour out her fears and troubles. As Kirk had suspected, she knew about Mr. Noakes and his missing note-case. She had not been told of it at the time, naturally; but later, when the weekly payments to Noakes had begun to press heavily on the exchequer, she had "wormed it out of" Joe. She had gone about in a state of anxiety ever since, fearing that something dreadful would happen. And then, a week ago to-day, Joe had had to go and tell Mr. Noakes he couldn't pay that week, and came back "looking awful," and saying "they were done for now for good and all." He'd been "very queer in his ways" all the week, and now Mr. Noakes was dead and Joe was missing and Martha Ruddle told her there'd been a dreadful quarrel and, "oh, I dunno, Mr. Kirk, I'm that terrified he may have done something rash."

 

Kirk, as delicately as he could, asked whether Joe had said anything to his wife about his quarrel with Noakes. Well, no, not exactly. All he'd said was, that Mr. Noakes wouldn't listen to nothing and it was all up. He wouldn't answer no questions—seemed regular fed-up like. Then he'd suddenly said he thought the best thing would be to chuck everything and go out to his elder brother in Canada, and would she go with him? She'd said, Why goodness gracious, Joe, surely Mr. Noakes wasn't going to tell on him after all this long while—it'd be a wicked shame, and after he'd paid all that money! Joe had only said gloomily, Well, you'll see to-morrow. And then he'd sat with his head in his hands, and there wasn't nothing to be got out of him. Next day they heard that Mr. Noakes had gone away. She had been afraid he'd gone to Broxford to tell on Joe; but nothing happened, and Joe cheered up a bit. And then this morning, she heard Noakes was dead, and she was that thankful, you couldn't think. But now Joe had gone off somewhere and Martha Ruddle came in with her talk—and since Mr. Kirk had found out about the note-case, she supposed it had all come out, and oh, dear, what was she to do and where was Joe?

 

None of this was very comforting to Kirk. It would have cheered him up a good deal to learn that Sellon had spoken frankly to his wife about the quarrel. And he didn't at all like the reference to the brother in Canada. If Sellon really had done away with Noakes, he would have had about as much chance of escaping to Canada as of being made king of the Cannibal Islands, and reflection must have told him so; but that his first blind impulse should have been to flee the country was unpleasantly significant. It occurred to Kirk, incidentally, that whoever did the murder must have been going through a pretty trying time. For it seemed very unlikely that he or she had thrown Noakes down the cellar steps—else why was the door left open? The murderer, having clubbed Noakes and left him for dead, would have expected—what? Well, if he had done it in the sitting-room or the kitchen or any room downstairs, the body might have been seen the next time anyone happened to look in at the windows—Mrs. Ruddle, or the postman, or an inquisitive lad from the village, or the vicar, on one of his visits. Or Aggie Twitterton might have come over to see her uncle. At any moment the discovery might have been made. Some poor devil (Kirk really felt a passing twinge of pity for the culprit) had been sitting for a whole week on the safety-valve, wondering! At any rate, the body must have been found the next Wednesday (that was to-day) because of Crutchley's weekly attendance. If, of course, the murderer knew about that, as he or she was bound to do; unless the crime could be traced to a passing tramp or somebody—and what a good thing if it could!

 

(While thinking this out, Kirk was talking soothingly in his slow speech, saying that something unexpected might have called Joe away; he had sent a man out to hunt him up; a constable in uniform couldn't very well get lost; it didn't do to imagine things.)

 

It was queer that Sellon...

 

Yes, by God, thought Kirk, that was queer; queerer than he cared to think about. He must take that away and chew it over. He couldn't think properly, with Mrs. Sellon's lamenting voice in his ears.... And the time didn't fit, because Crutchley had been over an hour in the house before the body was discovered. If Joe Sellon had been hanging round there at, say, eleven o'clock instead of past twelve.... Coincidence. He breathed again.

 

Mrs. Sellon was wailing on.

 

"We were that surprised when Willy Abbot come up with the milk this morning, to hear as a gentleman had taken Talboys. We didn't know rightly what to make of it. I said to Joe, 'Surely,' I said, 'Mr. Noakes wouldn't go away like that and let the house'—because, of course, we thought he'd let it like he often done before—'not without letting someone know,' I said. And Joe looked awful excited. I said, 'D'you suppose he's gone off somewhere?' I said. 'It looks queer to me,' I said, and he said, 'I don't know, but I'll soon find out.' And off he went. And he came in afterwards and wouldn't hardly swallow his breakfast, and he said, 'I can't hear nothing,' he said, 'only there's a lady and gentleman come and Noakes ain't turned up,' he said. And he went out again, and that's the last I see of him."

 

Well, thought Kirk, that puts the lid on. He'd forgotten the Wimseys, coming in and upsetting everything. Though he was not an imaginative man, he could see Sellon, startled by hearing that there was someone in the house, rushing out to learn the news, perplexed beyond expression by the fact that no body had been found, not daring to go and make open inquiries, but hovering round the house, manufacturing excuses for talking to Bert Ruddle—and he didn't like the Ruddles—waiting, waiting for the summons he knew must come, to him, to the only man with authority, hoping that the people in the house would leave it to him to examine the corpse, remove all evidences——

 

Kirk wiped his forehead, saying apologetically that he felt the room a little hot. He did not hear Mrs. Sellon's reply; he was imagining again.

 

What the murderer (better not call him Sellon), what the murderer found in that house was—not a helpless pair of London holiday-makers, not some vague artistic couple without practical common sense, not some pleasant retired schoolmistress coming to the country to enjoy a few weeks of fresh air and fresh eggs, but—a duke's son who cared for no man and knew exactly where the local bobby got off, who had investigated more murders than Paggleham had known in four centuries, whose wife wrote detective stories, and whose manservant was here, there and everywhere on swift and silent feet. But supposing, just supposing, the first people who arrived had been Aggie Twitterton and Frank Crutchley—as in rights they ought to have been? Even a local bobby could do as he liked with them; take charge, turn them out of the house, arrange things as he chose——

 

Kirk's wits were slow-moving, but when they took hold of a thing they worked with an efficiency which dismayed their owner.

 

He was trying to make some sort of commonplace rejoinder to Mrs. Sellon, when there was the sound of a motor-cycle drawing up at the gate. Looking out of the window, he saw it was Police-Sergeant Hart with Joe Sellon behind him, like two knights templars on one mount.

 

"Well!" said Kirk, with a cheerfulness he was far from feeling, "here's Joe back, anyhow, safe and sound."

 

But he didn't like the beaten, exhausted look on Sellon's face as Hart steered him up the little garden path. And he didn't look forward to questioning him.