The Garston Murder Case, page 10
Tony flushed. “No one. What the devil do you mean? This is my own show.”
“All alone, eh? Not consulted anyone?”
“If you want to know, I have——”
“Thought as much.”
“I consulted my mother’s solicitor—”
“Who is he?”
“Clunk, Joshua Clunk.”
“What, Clunk & Clunk!” Croyland chuckled. “You’re in with good people, Mr. Wisberry.”
“You know him, do you? That’s interesting too. I thought you might. He told me I should make nothing out of it. That’s another reason I’m going on.”
“What?”
“Yes, you don’t understand that,” Tony laughed. “I don’t want to make anything out of it. But I’m going to find out how my father died.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong man.” Croyland rose heavily. “I can’t do anything for you. Good-day, Mr. Wisberry.”
Tony sat still for a moment then sprang up. “All right. Fight it,” he cried, and swung out.
Croyland sat still looking at the shut door, then lumbered across the room and filled himself a glass of whisky and soda.
Gladys came back and saw him draining it. Her black eyebrows went up. She sat down at her table and began to rustle papers. Croyland glanced at her, lit a cigar, dropped into an easy chair, and smoked and grunted.
“Is there anything else for me?” Gladys suggested. A growl of negation answered. “Thank you. Will you want the two-seater this afternoon? I’d like to get some things. Back to tea.” Another growl agreed. “It’s lunch time, you know.” A third growl dismissed her.
For some time Croyland sat smoking. Then he went back to his desk and wrote slowly with much consideration, and what he wrote he put into his pocket.
Tony also was smoking as he drove back in his hireling car to Bradstock. Mr. Clunk, still engaged on the study of ecclesiastical antiquities, watched his departure with wistful interest, for it seemed to Mr. Clunk deplorably unreasonable that Croyland should have consented to see him.
That was, as he thought about it, surprising Tony too. If the old rascal only meant to turn him down why see him at all? Why not stand by the original refusal to discuss the matter? That looked comparatively respectable, the usual formal answer to claims. There could be no question of finding out what sort of a case he had. That was all in his letters. Perfectly futile to talk it over in order to tell him to go to the devil. Showed the blighter knew there was something beastly fishy about the business. But why let it out? He must be in the deuce of a funk. And why suddenly?
Tony could see no reason, and puzzling over Croyland’s queer questions became more puzzled: being without the knowledge that another visitor had been before him with Croyland that morning, threatening claims by a nameless man and revelations of what had happened in the spring of the year 1908. But Tony was very sure that he had Croyland frightened out of his life and he bit on his pipe and chuckled.
The world was beinig good. Quite good. A bit difficult to know what to do next. Ought to get hold of a sound lawyer and make him get busy: drive the old rascal hard now he was on the run. No screaming hurry though. He had to see that girl again somehow. Foul that she should be in the house mixed up with the rascal and his mad old mother. Nasty business. Beastly queer house. That lump Croyland, deep as sin, and devil could tell what on his conscience—mad old woman—and that scented, painted minx, his secretary. Nice young woman for a quiet teaparty she’d be. Oh, foul, that girl should be in the hands of such a crew. He must see her. Get her out of it somehow.
Very hard to know what to do. Couldn’t very well call on her. Only make a hell of a mess. Couldn’t hang about the place. Try writing to her, something simple and civil, ask her to meet him.
He went back to the Cock and Pie and wrote.
While he was writing, the meditations of Mr. Clunk among the ruins were disturbed by a small cough. Mr. Clunk turned and saw Lewis. “Staying at Spray-mouth, sir,” Lewis said. “Grand Hotel.”
“Dear me,” Mr. Clunk smiled. “I wonder if Mr. Bell would like to know that, Lewis.”
“Not yet, eh?” Lewis grinned.
“No, not yet, I think. It wouldn’t be at all good for him. He’s in such a hurry, Lewis. He does worry his cases.” Mr. Clunk tripped away. “Not yet, no. He that believeth shall not make haste. How true that is, Lewis. How good for the soul.” And Mr. Clunk suddenly ceased to make haste. He saw Gladys get into a two-seater. “Dear, dear, what a lot of cars there are to-day,” he sighed. “Where is ours, Lewis?”
They found it, they followed Gladys down the drive. As they came to the lodge Lewis turned to Mr. Clunk. “She went right. That’s the Spraymouth road,” he said.
“Is it indeed?” said Mr. Clunk. “Well, well, well. We’d better go our own way, Lewis.” He sighed. “There was another car, an old shabby car, hired here in the country, I think. Eh?”
“Saw an old bus going down to Bradstock—that’s the village beyond the harbour.”
“Dear me, what a lot of people,” Mr. Clunk sighed.
CHAPTER XII
MR. CLUNK BEARS NO MALICE
Mr. Clunk’s conscience objected to his working on Sunday. This limitation however was liable to exceptions when he found himself in a place which contained no place of worship approved by his conscience. Most places have that defect. In such unhappy conditions it was not merely allowed but obligatory to work; and you might have heard Mr. Clunk chanting:
“Give every flying minute
Something to keep in store.
Work for the night is coming
When man works no more.”
With that melody on his lips he came to Sunday’s breakfast and asked Lewis if he was going to Chapel. Lewis hastily thought not. “I fear you’re right, my boy,” Mr. Clunk sighed. “Yes indeed. Well, well, well. We’ll have the car then. Work is worship, my boy.”
Work had formed no part of Lewis’s plan for the day. He agreed sulkily. In gloomy and reproachful silence he drove Mr. Clunk out to Bradstock and Mr. Clunk prattled to him of the service of modern inventions to true religion. For of old, as Mr. Clunk pointed out, a journey to Bradstock would have required one horse or two, and to make the animals labour on the Sabbath was sadly wrong; whereas, going out behind the engine of a motor, they were blameless. “Doesn’t that show we’re making our world better and better, my boy?” said Mr. Clunk. “Yes indeed. How comforting that is.”
And Lewis, nodding, wondered in his saturnine mind what dirty work the old man was up to. When he drivelled special he always had something on his mind.
But Mr. Clunk’s actions were blameless. He directed the car, not to Bradstock Abbey, but round the harbour to the little fishermen’s village of Bradstock. He had it brought down to the beach like a man intending nothing but the simple joys of a picnic. He wandered about the sands, pointing out Nature’s beauty. He got into talk with a fisherman here and there. Lewis, lazily admiring the skill of the old boy in making men who had little but manhood in common with him talk about their trade and their sleepy village, wondered what on earth he was after. For the drowning of Alfred Garston in the harbour had not been confided to Lewis. Why Mr. Clunk should be so pleased to hear the harbour waters were safe as nothing and no one ever had no trouble there was beyond Lewis.
They ate their lunch on the beach. Mr. Clunk then thought that he would look at the church. The prospect did not attract Lewis. He lay on the sand and drowsed, and Mr. Clunk tripped away. The village church was small but of a grave dignity, built by the monks in a good age. About it were the graves of many of the rich folk who had held their Abbey after them. Mr. Clunk was much interested. He found the stone which bore the name of Alfred Garston, younger son of Sir Samuel Garston, Baronet, R.I.P. Close by another stone was inscribed to Samuel Garston, First Baronet of Bradstock Abbey. The father had not lived many weeks after his son’s death.
Mr. Clunk tapped his teeth. “Dear, dear. That was very sad for Lord Croyland,” he murmured. “And he, even he only, is left.” Mr. Clunk gave a queer little chuckle and turned away.
The village of Bradstock does not offer many possibilities of lodging strangers. Mr. Clunk made his way with easy confidence to the Cock and Pie. It is a homely inn, of cream cob walls and thatched roof set back behind a square of green. At that hour of Sunday afternoon, when public beer is forbidden, it was profoundly still and silent. But on the long seat under its windows was stretched Tony smoking a pipe and contemplating the unconscious approach of Mr. Clunk with bitter amusement. It is difficult even for the expert to overlook anyone of Tony’s size in a plausible way. But Mr. Clunk did well.
He tripped to the door, he tapped and stood waiting, and Tony spoke. “Why not see me?”
Mr. Clunk jumped. “Bless my soul!” he cried. “Tony! My dear boy, what ever are you doing here?”
“Admiring you. And what have you come for?”
“A cup of tea,” said Mr. Clunk, and tapped again.
“Don’t do that. Old Collins won’t like it. He’s having his afternoon shut eye. And he hates getting teas.”
“But how wrong that is!” said Mr. Clunk. “A licence holder is bound to serve reasonable refreshment at reasonable hours. And he ought to encourage tea drinking. It is far better for everyone, body and soul. And a very good profit too.”
“Oh gosh,” Tony groaned. “You are, you really are! And why are you? It don’t cut any ice.”
“I don’t follow you, my boy,” said Mr. Clunk tolerantly, and tapped more loudly at the door. It was flung open, a lump of a man scowled at him. “Mr. Wisberry says you can let me have some tea,” Mr. Clunk smiled. “For both of us if you please.” The man vanished with a growl.
Tony had to laugh. “That’s a dirty trick. Now he’ll take it out of me. Persistent beggar, aren’t you?”
“Oh, really, do you think so?” Mr. Clunk came to the bench and Tony’s legs reluctantly moved to let him sit down. “Thank you, my boy, I rather depend on my tea.”
“I’m not thinking of your tea,” Tony grunted, watching him. “You didn’t come down to Bradstock for a cup of tea.”
The tea came, banged down on the bare table in front of them by an angry man. “Thank you so much.” Mr. Clunk eagerly poured out the black fluid. “How nice and strong. There you are, my boy.” He sipped his own and beamed. And the landlord was mollified to ask if the gentleman would like a bit o’ lobster.
Tony waved him away. “Now then, Mr. Clunk. What is it you do want? Let’s have it out.”
“But my dear boy, I want nothing. When I came down here, I had no idea I should meet you.”
“Oh, rats.”
“Really, Tony, if you won’t choose to believe me, why ask? But there’s no mystery about my being here. I’m staying at Limbay defending a poor fellow who is accused of theft. You will find the case in the papers. He’s in court again to-morrow. I drove out to-day to look at the country.”
“And to see Croyland, I suppose.”
“I have never seen Lord Croyland in my life,” said Mr. Clunk. “I’ve no intention of trying. But of course that is what has brought you. Dear me, I might have known.”
“You might,” Tony grinned. “In fact you did. And you came over to say I’d better not.”
“No indeed. My dear boy, if you remember our last important interview, you must see that I could not advise you further. You made it plain you did not trust me, Tony. I don’t care to deny that I was much hurt. But that is nothing. The point is, I make it a rule to give no advice if I am not trusted.”
“Thanks so much. That’s just as well. I have seen Croyland.”
“Dear me! I confess I am surprised. Well, well, well! In a long experience I have seldom been more surprised.”
Tony frowned. An old unpleasant suspicion that Mr. Clunk was too clever for him asserted itself. “Bound to say that, aren’t you?” he growled. “You told me I had no sort of case against him.”
“Certainly that was my opinion,” Mr. Clunk murmured, and tapped his teeth.
“What are you suggesting now?”
“No, no, my boy. I suggest nothing. It’s not my business,” Mr. Clunk said sadly.
“Well, he did see me. And heard all I’d got to say in order to tell me I had no case and could go to the devil; just like you, Mr. Clunk. Curious, isn’t it?”
“My dear boy!” Mr. Clunk was quick to protest. “I could never tell you to go to the devil.”
“No. He was more honest. Sorry. And I told him I should fight.”
“Really! Well, well, well!” Mr. Clunk sighed.
“Don’t like that, do you?” Tony glared at him.
Mr. Clunk took a lump of sugar and sucked. “Dear me, I couldn’t say. It’s not for me to object. What you think best, my dear boy, what you think right. Do right and fear nothing. There’s no other rule in life.” He crunched the sugar and took another lump while Tony glowered at him. “Good-bye, my dear boy. Always your friend. I bear no malice, Tony, none. Goodbye. I’ll pay for the tea.”
“Oh, be damned,” said Tony. But Mr. Clunk did not hear that, and in fact was not meant to. It was an expression of bewilderment.
That day Mr. Clunk did no more. Lewis came to the conclusion that he was not feeling well. His prevailing habit is to be conversational. He said during the rest of Sunday nothing which was not necessary; he abstained even from humming. He was wrapped in solemn thought and he went very early to bed. Such retirement, Mrs. Clunk might have explained to Lewis, indicates a felt want of ideas.
But he was in court next morning, brisk and beaming as ever. Neither the solicitor on. the other side nor Bell and Gunn made so prompt an appearance. They were indeed something after the hour, and when they came at last Mr. Clunk looked at his watch with ostentation and his hem of comment was audible.
The magistrates took their seats, the solicitor whispered to the clerk, the clerk to the magistrates, and again Mr. Clunk’s watch came out and he sighed loud and clear.
Billy Bones was put in the dock. The solicitor came back to his place and addressed the bench. Since the last sitting of the court, he had had an opportunity of examining the evidence which could be offered.
“Dear me,” said Mr. Clunk.
The solicitor appreciated his friend’s anxiety. He was bound to tell the bench that upon full consideration he had come to the conclusion it would not be right to ask the bench to commit the prisoner for trial.
Then Mr. Clunk rose and enjoyed himself. Superintendent Bell did not.
The bench remained calm: pronounced that the charge must be dismissed and did not desire to express any opinion on the conduct of the case.
Mr. Clunk, with a smile and a nod at Bell’s stolid face, tripped out of court to find his client. Billy Bones was a happy man. “Good for you, Clunk. Shake. You did that fine. I nearly burst myself watching Bell squirm.”
“You’re a very lucky man, my friend,” Mr. Clunk admonished him. “You must know that. Don’t forget it.”
“Not half. You’ve done me proud. I never forget a pal.”
“Don’t forget yourself,” said Mr. Clunk austerely. “I hope I shall never see you again.”
“All right, all right,” Billy Bones was surprised and grieved. “No offence, Mr. Clunk.”
“You silly fellow. I’m not angry with you. It’s my business to help silly fellows. But I don’t want any more of this case.”
“I say, you mean Bell’s worrying at it still?”
“I mean that you had better be very quiet, my friend.”
“Not half,” Billy Bones winked. “It’s me for the Continong. I’ll take Gracie for a bit of a honeymoon, what?”
Mr. Clunk sighed. “That will do,” he admitted with regret. “Go abroad and stay there. Try to be a good fellow, Benson.”
“You bet. I’ve had enough for a bit. I say, do you think there’s going to be more trouble?”
“My poor fellow, you know Bell. Does he look satisfied?”
Billy Bones pondered. “I say, Clunk, on the square —are you inside this?”
“I know nothing about it but what you’ve told me.”
“Smell something though, eh?”
“My dear fellow, I can see it wasn’t the jewels you were after,” said Mr. Clunk.
“Who are you acting for, anyway?”
“Myself,” said Mr. Clunk. “I find it a curiously interesting case, my friend.”
Again Billy Bones pondered. “I don’t know. Look here, Clunk, you’ve done me well. Can I do you a bit o’ good? I reckon you’d like to know what was in the old girl’s letters?” Billy looked wary. “Well, if you took it her man Alfred was telling her his brother hated him enough to do him in, you wouldn’t be so far out.”
“Oh dear, what sad stuff.” Mr. Clunk was shocked. “The letters were wanted for blackmail, I suppose.”
“What do you think?” Billy Bones grinned..
“You’re a sad fellow,” Mr. Clunk sighed. “Try to get away from it all, Benson.”
“Bet your life. Right away at jolly old Monte. Cheerio, Clunk. Wish you luck. You ought to have a share of the dibs, I swear you ought.” Billy Bones gripped his hand. “Toodle-oo.”
On his way through the police officers Mr. Clunk met Inspector Gunn and Superintendent Bell. “Well now!” He stopped. “This is very pleasant. How are you? How are you?”
“None the better for seeing you, Mr. Clunk,” Gunn said grinning. “You’ve had a nice bit of fun with us, haven’t you?”
“Really now. You mustn’t take it like that,” Mr. Clunk protested. “I have my duty to do, just as you have, Inspector. And you know you’ve given me a great deal of trouble. You shouldn’t have handled the case in this way, really you shouldn’t. Quite wrong. But we can be good friends now, I hope and trust. I bear no malice, I promise you.”
“Thank you kindly,” said Gunn, and took Bell away. When they were behind a shut door, “There’s gall for you,” he exploded. “Bears no malice! That’s the limit. Nasty little monkey.”
