Dead March for Penelope Blow, page 13
‘Tea, sir?’ said a waiter.
Cromwell, full to the brim with tea and cake, winced. Littlejohn found him sleeping it off in a chair in the lounge when he returned an hour later.
Chapter Eleven
He wouldn’t stop talking
Paston was decidedly uncomfortable. Superintendent Hempseed was still laid-up with his lumbago the Chief Constable was due to return in a day or two, the police had offended and been turned out by the Blows and were carrying on their investigations by back-stairs methods. It gave him the jitters. If Littlejohn didn’t succeed in the case, Inspector Paston would be broken good and proper, and he already had, in the still hours of the night, visions of himself again pounding the beat or, worse still, sacked.
So when Littlejohn suggested taking a walk and interviewing Cuthbert Broome, ex-chief cashier of Blows’ Bank and father of Lenore Blow, Paston grew hot under the collar.
‘But he’ll tell Lenore, sure as eggs...and then the fat’ll be in the fire. She’ll pass on the good news to her husband and he’ll be over here like a shot…’
‘We’ll have to risk that. Things are beginning to get more concentrated and easier to understand. We’ve got a motive now and Broome’s the only one who can tell us where the funds which old Blow salted away have been placed...If anyone complains, say I did it all. Say I interfered and you couldn’t get rid of me. Say anything, but let’s get ahead. We’re not far from the winning-post if I’m any judge.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do. The motive is the Blow treasure controlled by Miss Penelope. Somebody’s either had it or is after it. We’ve to find out where it is and how much there is left of it. The existence of the hidden hoard was supposed to be a secret known only to one or two trusted people. We’ve to find out who betrayed confidences and to whom. We also know that Honoria is subject to crazy fits and thanks to Cromwell’s hobnobbing with the Blows’ staff, we learn that they think Miss Honoria killed her sister. They think she administered the poison herself to herself to get Miss Penelope away to London and leave the field clear for operations on the box...That seems a bit fantastic to me...All the same, we’ve got to get on quickly. The right direction is Broome. I take it I have your concurrence, Paston?’
‘Yes...I suppose that’s the best. Carry on, sir...’
Littlejohn thanked him and Cromwell grunted approval. The sergeant was returning to London to interview Mrs. Buckley, who kept the boarding-house near Egton Square. Maybe she could throw some light on Miss Penelope’s last journey and her last days.
Cuthbert Broome lived in the house he’d occupied for more than fifty years. It was an old Georgian place in a side-street ten minutes from the main square. Time had taken the tide of residential life away into the country suburbs, but Orchard House, Haxton Street, remained. The orchard and gardens had been sold at profitable prices and were now covered by a chemist’s shop, a fish and chip restaurant, and a tobacconist’s, followed by a cheap tailor’s, and a grocer’s, who had been apparently trying to build a Tower of Babel of tins of whale meat, coarse fish and soup in his window. Orchard House towered above the modern tile and tin shop-fronts like an indignant old dowager. Captain Broome hadn’t moved out of town with the rest. He couldn’t, in the first place, afford the expense and, besides, what was the use? His heart wouldn’t stand up to exercises of a country nature, his old cronies were all dead, and he was such an old bore that new friends fled from him. He might just as well stay indoors...He’d been a Captain in the Volunteers as long ago as that—and retained the title. He was that sort.
Littlejohn rang the doorbell and was admitted by the housekeeper, a small, stout, masterful woman who looked like Queen Victoria, even down to the perpetual mourning which she had worn since the death of her husband, a former messenger at Blows’ Bank, thirty years ago. Lenore paid for the housekeeper; her father couldn’t afford it. He had been unlucky in retiring from the bank before it was taken over by a large, joint-stock undertaking with a proper and generous pension fund. In the old days, Captain Broome had guarded the cash of Blows’ Bank through thick and thin, with his life. The partners had treated him like a domestic servant until Ralph grew old enough to notice the beauty of his daughter, Lenore. Then it had been a bit better. But a threatened run on the bank many years ago had given Broome a heart attack and necessitated retirement. The gratitude of his employers for a lifetime’s faithful service as monetary watchdog had been expressed in the form of an annuity yielding two hundred and fifty pounds per annum. It would have been much less had the bankers not persuaded the insurance people that Broome was as good as dead already. He had cheated them.
Littlejohn was ushered in Mr. Broome’s private den by the housekeeper. The Captain, he had learned, was eighty or more, but the man who stood on the hearthrug awaiting him didn’t look that age. He was tall and spare, with a stoop and a head of snow-white, carefully groomed hair. He wore tweeds and was smoking a curved pipe. He bore a white military moustache, long and carefully trimmed and curling upwards at the ends, his complexion was ruddy, more from blood pressure than the out-of-doors, and his linen was spotless. Only the mottled veins of his cheeks and his neat shrivelled hands revealed his age and physical condition. He was holding Littlejohn’s card between finger and thumb. Behind him over the mantelpiece hung the head of an enormous deer. Captain Broome said he had shot it in the highlands, but nobody knew whether he was joking or not.
‘Good afternoon, Captain Broome...’
They’d told Littlejohn he would be starting off on the right foot if he used the title.
‘Afternoon, sir. To what do I owe this honour…if honour it is?’
He looked curious and uneasy.
‘Sit down...’
The room was basically Victorian with the addition of odds and ends which an old campaigner might accumulate in his travels following the flag. Mrs. Broome’s father had been a Major, a regular, and was thought to be well-off during his lifetime. When he died, however, he left a lot of debts and a collection of junk gathered from the Sudan, South Africa, Egypt, Ashanti and India. On the wall hung the Major’s photograph, in antique glengarry cap and heavy moustache, and all around were his treasures. Spears, ivory temples, Chinese vases, ebony chairs and chests, native leatherwork, Indian brassware, and a large buffet inlaid in gold, the present of the King of Ashanti who had been the Major’s personal friend. Captain Broome retained them all around him in the hope that visitors would think he had garnered them in his own campaigns, although he’d never been out of the country himself. In cold weather he suffered from senile amnesia, and then declared confidently that they were actually presents from the grateful recipients of his military services.
‘What can I do for you, sah?’
As time went on the Captain became more and more the old campaigner and less and less the ex-cashier.
‘I’m here investigating the death of the late Miss Blow. You were a friend of the family, I hear, and particularly of the late William Blow and Miss Penelope.’
That did it! His daughter, who was very fond of him because he still symbolized her happy childhood and was all that was left of her former peace, had already told him about the re-opening of the case and her husband’s reaction to it. Lenore had related it all with the bitter humour she employed when speaking of her husband. She had married him for her father’s sake and rued the day ever since. Captain Broome was on his guard when Littlejohn’s card had been brought in by Queen Victoria. But now...Well...A friend of the Blows, who in the old days had made his knees knock by their very presence and who, even in taking Lenore in the bosom of their family, had let it be known that he didn’t share the privilege and needn’t think he did...Well...
‘Oh, yes. Great friend of ’em...Colleague of old William for best part of me life. Official of the bank when wasn’ soidierin’. Want to know somethin’ about ’em…? If you do, just say so...Whisky and soda? Not supposed to take it maself...Heart, cherknow. Two tots and three pipes are all the doctor lets me have. Eh?’
He looked so eager for a drink himself that Littlejohn gave him the excuse. Lenore paid for the whisky, too.
The Captain served the drinks and helped himself.
‘Now, sir...’
‘You were, I believe, Chief Cashier of Blows’ Bank, sir, when the late William Blow went slightly off his head and had to be confined to his room...’
‘Brumph...No, I was retired then, sah, but still in the confidence of the bank. People said he got a touch of religion. I say poppycock, sah...poppy-cock...Been drinkin’ too much. Alcoholism...The bottle, sah...’
‘I see. In any case, he was too mentally unstable to make a new Will when he became convinced he ought to do so...’
The Captain rose to his feet.
‘Who’s bin talkin’ too fast? That was a strictly private affah, known only to a trusted few...a trusted few...’
‘All the same, we have ways of finding these things out, sir. He was mentally incapable of making a new Will and knew it. He wished to put right certain wrongs in such a document. So he made a present of a nest-egg he’d laid aside for a rainy day to Miss Penelope, in trust for herself and her sisters...’
‘One moment, sir. Let us be clear on one point. If you are attemptin’ to involve me in such transactions, I acted strictly in my capacitah as a retired but still trusted servant of the bank. Let that be clear from the outset...’
‘Of course. That is understood. You were in the confidence of Mr. William Blow at the time. In fact, his most trusted man...’
‘Yes. And bankin’ was bankin’ in my days, sir, let me tell you. Sovereigns...Gold...Not dirty bits of paper printed by the damn’ government...Gold, sah. And Blows’ was Blows’, too. On the spot...not somewhere in an office in London with Nesbury just a name on a map. Blows’ were Nesbury and Nesbury was Blows’. If Blows’ didn’t like you, sir, you went bust…Those were the days, sir...’
‘Were they, sir?’
‘Yes. Do you doubt it, sir?’
They were sirring one another like old boots and it looked like developing into an argument. Captain Broome had the reputation for bearing two grudges about which he grew very talkative and quarrelsome. Banking wasn’t what it was and modern mechanised warfare wasn’t warfare at all—it was an industry.
‘To get back to our point, sir...Mr. William trusted you to the extent of asking you to co-operate in his scheme for putting right the wrong he’d done to his daughters in his Will. He got you to take bonds valued at £30,000 from his private strong-box in the bank’s vault and sell them.’
Captain Broome turned a sickly purple colour and looked ready to have a stroke.
‘Don’t be annoyed, Captain Broome. The past is dead and done with. I’m not an Inland Revenue investigator. I’m on the case of Miss Penelope’s death and that only...’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Inspector, for I see you’re aware of the full facts. Yes, sir, I did take the bonds and sell ’em at my old chief’s request. I’d do it again, sir...I’m proud of my service with Blows’ Bank, though I can’t say I find the present institution inspirin’. Too inhuman...No warm blood in it...Men just numbers...Women about the place, too...Can’t bear women messin’ about in commerce and bankin’, any more than I can bear ’em in the army. Why, in my day...’
‘You sold the bonds, sir, and banked the money in a secret account?’
‘I did, at the old chief’s request. Nothin’ to do with me that death duties weren’t paid on the proceeds. You see that, don’t you? I was merely actin’ on instructions.’
‘Of course.’
‘Whatever I tell you, Inspector, is in the strictest confidence. I know you’ll get it one way if I don’t give it to you another. I’m an old man, sir, though you wouldn’t think me eighty, would you? All I ask is your discretion, Inspector...and, most of all, that my little gel won’t suffer...My gel’s Mrs. Ralph Blow, you know.’
‘Yes, I know that, sir.’
The old man brooded and looked in the fire.
‘Between you and me, Inspector...wish I’d died when I had the heart attack that finished me off in the bank. Wouldn’t have been a burden then to my little gel. When Ralph Blow started courtin’ her, I thought it was a godsend. Got her comfortably settled and she needn’t work anymore for that blasted Liberal politician...She was his secretary, Inspector, and to an old Tory like meself, that was wormwood and gall, sir...Still, one has to live...And I was a bit dependent on her...Only got my pension…Turned out she was in love with another chap. Turned him down for Blow and he went off and got killed in the war...Troubles me a lot, sir, my little gel’s marriage...Misfired sadly...But why am I talkin’ like this to you, a stranger…? Forgive an old man, sir, who hasn’t anybody to talk with...Is that all?’
Captain Broome rose, a rather ridiculous figure among all his fake trophies and with his spurious campaigning style, but very human and pathetic when you scratched the surface and saw what was going on underneath the veneer.
‘Is that all…?’
‘Could you tell me the bank where you deposited the funds, Captain Broome?’
Broome put his tired hand to his forehead in confusion.
‘Afraid I can’t, sir, but I’ll look it up at once. Memory’s givin’ out. Turned eighty...Wouldn’t think it, would you? Eighty-two in May...What were you asking…?’
‘The bank...’
‘Oh, yes...the bank. I kept the papers just in case...well...you know, might have been accused of takin’ a bit for myself, cherknow, Mr. William being a bit beside himself and Miss Penelope not knowin’ much of finance. Kept details and receipts as proof, if needed. But they were never needed. Penelope was a good gel...Trusted me and treated me like one of themselves. Often called to ask after me. Only one who did...’
The old gentleman turned to a heavy carved oak bureau, made of sandalwood and brought by his father-in-law from Suez. He opened the top and started to rummage among its neat contents with trembling, impatient fingers. Littlejohn looked around the stuffy room with its great fire and antique-shop air. There were campaigning pictures on the walls, photographs of the late Major, and a few of Mr. Broome himself in camp with fellow officers, dressed in numerous uniforms, including sun-helmets, forage caps, and even bearskin busbies. Over the fireplace, at eye level, hung two delicate miniatures on ivory. One was of Lenore herself; the other of one who must have been her mother. Dark, handsome, with a proud look and a haughty nose, Littlejohn saw in a flash whence came Lenore’s aristocratic bearing and almost spectacular beauty. The Captain, aware of the Inspector’s silence, turned.
‘Lookin’ at my little gel’s picture. I’m proud of her, sir. Might have done better for her, but...Well, she’s always been a beauty...Like her mother, sir. Fine woman, her mother. Died twenty years ago. Never married again...Couldn’t find her equal. Honourable Alice Greelam, she was...Met her payin’ in for her father at the bank. Love match. Not good enough for her by half, but she was a good wife. Tried to keep up with her...Failed...Damn...damme...can’t find those papers...You have a try, Inspector...’
The old man was in tears. Frustration at his inability to find what he wanted, self-pity at his loneliness, and grief at the loss of past happiness...
‘You married?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Happy?’
‘Extremely...’
‘Look after her, then. My own fault I lost mine. Took her boatin’. Rowin’ boat on Windermere. Storm blew up. Boat capsized. I couldn’t swim...They hooked me out...If I’d learned to swim instead of shootin’ and showin’ off in uniforms...Well...What are you waitin’ for…? Search the papers there. You’ll find what you want.’
Littlejohn was in a black mood. His work often led him into stark tragedy, but it was the irony here that seemed to stab him to the quick. Hastily he turned over the bundles of papers and envelopes. They must have been accumulated over all the years old Broome could write. The stamps on some of the envelopes would have made a philatelist’s mouth water.
Birth, marriage, and death certificates; legal documents; private letters; what looked like love-letters, as well, tied up with pink tape; a bundle of correspondence addressed to the Captain and his wife in a girlish hand, which might have been Lenore’s news from school. They bore Swiss stamps and the Lausanne postmark. Finally, a small envelope marked ‘William Blow—Contract Notes, etc., Sale of Bonds’. That was it. Littlejohn passed the packet to Captain Broome, who was pouring out two more whiskies.
‘You’ll join me, Inspector? It’s one too many for me. But I need one...Somethin’ about you makes a man talk...Never spoke about my affairs to a soul for years...Not since my son left us...’
‘You have a son, then, sir?’
‘Yes. In Australia. Sheep-farmin’. Doin’ nicely. Won’t come back here. Never see him again...’
‘Why?’
‘Ahem...Told you so much of my private affairs. May as well know the rest...I can trust you. My boy was in Blows’ Bank. Junior cashier. Wrong in his cash. Turned out he’d been helpin’ himself. I’d retired then. Ralph said if Lenore would marry him, he’d fix it...no prosecution, understand? Only a hundred pounds or so, but they threatened to call in the police. After all my years with them. Offered to put it right meself, but Ralph had it just as he wanted. Lenore...’
‘I see. I’m sorry. Why didn’t you go out to him if he’s “doing well?”’
‘I can’t leave Lenore to the mercies of the Blows, sir. I’d have gone otherwise...Too late now...Besides, Lenore’s still unhappy.’
