The Two Hundred Ghost, page 12
Sally knew she was right. But Prescott wouldn’t listen to that sort of argument.
The afternoon passed slowly and painfully. Father William, Miss Mundle said, had refused to close the shop. ‘This isn’t the end of it by any means,’ he had said. ‘There’s no reason why we should put up the shutters as if it were.’ If Father William could carry on business as usual, they all could. So Sally dealt with customers and did her best to behave as if nothing had happened.
Johnny had said this morning that he had told Prescott nothing about the Butcher-Francis-Carlington theory, because there was no evidence whatever to support it. But he had obviously made up his mind to find some if it could be found, and Sally stayed on after the shop shut, hoping he might have something to tell her. He came down a little before half-past five, but he hadn’t got much in the way of news. Patrick Lincoln had reported guardedly, over the telephone, that he had talked to Barnet and Miss Coates. Barnet had known Butcher slightly and was quite certain he hadn’t seen him at Lincoln’s on Tuesday — and reasonably certain he hadn’t seen him there for a couple of months before his death. Miss Coates didn’t seem to have known him even by sight, but after patient and discreet inquiries Patrick was fairly satisfied that he hadn’t visited the shop between twelve and one on Tuesday.
‘Which leaves us more or less where we were before,’ said Johnny. ‘I’m going round to The Bunch of Grapes, Sally. I want to find out from Gladys whether Butcher and Carlington ever got together there — I’ve seen Carlington there once or twice. I’m not going to ask you to come with me, because I gather the reporters have got on to the place. But if you’d care to wait a little, I’ll come back and tell you any news there is, and we’ll have a quick drink elsewhere. I wish I could suggest dinner, but I’m going home with Father William. He’s gone to Kensington to see Uncle Charles and my aunt, and I’m picking him up there about half-past six.’
When he had gone out, Sally went along to the office to return a reference book which was kept there. Miss Mundle was packing up, and she looked as if she had been crying. It would have been difficult to offer her any direct comfort, but Sally stayed to talk to her for a few minutes. Presently Miss Mundle sighed, and said: ‘Well, I must be going home. I’ll just put this away first, and then I’m finished.’
The book she picked up was a vaguely familiar octavo in red cloth. Sally looked more closely at it and said: ‘Hughes.’
‘Yes, dear. That man borrowed it. He returned it this morning.’
‘I’ll put it away,’ said Sally. ‘I know where it lives.’ She wanted to look at the Hughes in private, though she didn’t know what she expected to find. It was probably just one of those illogical impulses.
‘Well, that’s very nice of you, dear,’ said Miss Mundle. ‘I am a little tired tonight.’
In the dusty room next door to the packing department Sally turned up Hughes’ account of the Number Two Hundred ghost and glanced through the pages. But there was nothing unusual to be seen — no pencil markings or anything like that. She was irrationally disappointed.
She remembered as near as no matter where the book had been. Towards the right-hand end of the upper shelf of modern books on the occult, most of them in cloth bindings. Above them were two more shelves containing the older books on the subject, most of them in calf. As she slipped the Hughes into place, she noticed an old book slightly smaller than most of the others on its shelf, with a very worn leather spine, and no title on it. Small, old books always caught her eye, and she always felt an urge to open them. The light on this side of the room wasn’t very good, but the softness and poor wearing of the leather suggested sheep. Perhaps that struck a chord in her mind without her being aware of it. She drew out the book and opened it at the title page. At first she just didn’t believe what she saw.
The
Anatomie
of
Sovereigntie
by
A
Gentleman
At the foot of the page was only the date: 1649. And between was an inscription in faded brown ink and an elegant seventeenth-century hand.
This book was writ by mine honour’d father, of dearlie beloved memorie, Sir Roger Colet, Kt, of Farington in the Countie of Oxford.
Wm Colet, gent
In June, 1660.
Sally turned and ran out of the room, along the passage, up the staircase, with the book in her hand. As she came into the shop Johnny was letting himself in at the front door.
‘What is it, Sally?’ he asked quickly, and strode over to her.
She was breathless with running and excitement. She could only say: ‘Johnny!’ on a gasp and hold the book out to him.
He looked at the title and said: ‘Good God! Where did you find it?’
She managed to tell him, and he nodded. ‘Not such a bad hiding place: in among a lot of other books of roughly the same size and binding, in a room where the light isn’t too good, where even the staff don’t go very often, and where no dusting to speak of is done. It might have stayed there till the next stock-taking: just about a year. The stock in that room was taken early last week.’ He smiled and quoted GK Chesterton. ‘“Where does a wise man hide a pebble? On the beach. Where does a wise man hide a leaf? In the forest.”’
Then he became more practical. ‘Well, this is certainly evidence of our theory, Sally. It looks as if Butcher had hidden it there himself, to wait until Pilton turned up. It would probably have been safe enough in his own office, and he’d have had it under his eye. But Uncle Charles or someone might have come in to look for a book while he wasn’t there, and just happened on it. The Occult Room is just about the least frequented room in the house, and if the Colet were found there, there would be no particular evidence to connect him with it. He’d know the stock-taking had been done there, too, because he did it himself; in fact, he was doing it on Tuesday.’ Johnny paused, holding the book very carefully in his big hands.
‘The only other possibility,’ he went on, ‘is that the murderer put it there, probably having found it in Butcher’s office, and that would imply that the murderer was involved in the theft; otherwise he’d have no reason to hide it. Knowing the trade, he’d know it would be extremely dangerous to try to sell it — unless he could cash in on Butcher’s market, and that would be pretty risky for him too — and he might be afraid to hang on to it. The safest thing, of course, would have been to destroy it, and that is undoubtedly a logical argument against the murderer’s having hidden it. Personally, I doubt if any real bookman could bring himself to destroy a thing like this, though if he could bring himself to destroy a human life, the doubt may be unreasonable. He might possibly have had belated pangs of conscience about it too if it were the property of his late employers. I’m assuming that in this case the murderer is Carlington; unless Philip Francis is putting on a bold act, he didn’t know about Butcher’s death until Liza told him, and I’m perfectly certain he would have held on to the book — it would be right in his line, wouldn’t it? I don’t know how far Carlington knows our premises, but knowing bookshops in general he could easily have picked the right sort of place to hide it, though he’d be taking a big chance on the stock-taking question, unless Butcher had happened to tell him he’d done that room. He might have known we always take stock fairly punctually, but even with us it’s about even chances at this time of year that any stock has either just been taken or is just about to be, and no book can escape the process. He may just not have thought of that, of course. Still, I think it’s more likely Butcher put the thing there himself.’
‘I think so too,’ said Sally. She put out her hand and touched the worn sheepskin very gently.
‘We’ll take it downstairs,’ said Johnny, ‘and put it in the strongroom. I must tell Father William about it. I think it’s time he knew about our theory, too. What’s more, it’s only right that old man Lincoln should be told at once that his property is safe, but he’ll have to be restrained from reclaiming it immediately, because it’s obviously going to be wanted as a police exhibit, and it’s not my place to restrain him, thank God. Father William must get on to him.’
‘A police exhibit. Of course. And I’ve fingered it all over.’
Johnny grinned. ‘So have I. It’s just too bad. I don’t suppose for a moment there were any other prints on it, whoever hid it. Butcher wouldn’t take any chances, any more than the murderer would.’
‘Johnny, will this help Tim?’
‘I hope so,’ said Johnny gravely. ‘Ultimately. We shall get on to Prescott this evening, I expect, but you see, while this suggests that Butcher was responsible for the theft of the Colet, there’s no evidence as yet to connect the theft with his death. We’ve done nothing to upset any of the evidence against Tim, and that evidence is pretty strong. Never mind; something will probably turn up.’
‘You didn’t get anything out of Gladys?’
‘Nothing to the purpose, I’m afraid. Butcher and Carlington knew each other, very naturally. They occasionally had a drink together. I couldn’t ask Gladys leading questions, but I gave her the opportunity of telling me that they got into a huddle and talked in conspiratorial whispers, and she didn’t. They appear to have behaved exactly like two honest men in the same trade, running into each other in the same local. Of course that’s exactly how they would behave if they weren’t two honest men. But it doesn’t get us any further. Let’s put this book away.’
Johnny had a key to the drawer in Father William’s desk where the strongroom key was kept. The strongroom was a big steel-lined cupboard off the little room in the basement where the Book Auction Records and various other works of reference lived. Johnny gave the Colet back to Sally and opened the heavy door.
‘You put it in,’ he said. ‘You found it.’
Chapter Nine
A little after half-past nine on the following morning, a conference was held in the office. All three of the partners attended it; Mr Charles, drawing on some secret fund of Heldar courage, was here again today. Old man Lincoln, in a genially ferocious mood, arrived with Patrick, who seemed as languid as ever. Then Prescott appeared, with his fingerprint expert and another man whom Sally hadn’t seen before.
Presently she was summoned to the office and required to give an account of her discovery. Prescott responded with a few well-chosen words on the undesirability of handling evidence more than was strictly necessary, and her fingerprints were taken by the expert. Then the party adjourned to the Occult Room. There she was questioned further, both by Prescott and by the new plain-clothes man, who, she gathered, had been investigating the theft of the Colet. He was addressed as Inspector Gunning, and was a large, quiet, restful man — a pleasant contrast to Prescott. Sally was asked about Philip Francis’ visit on Wednesday, and Professor Harborne’s on Thursday. Finally Prescott said that he and Gunning would like to see Miss Liza Chancer about Mr Francis’s second visit. The expert was left to play about in the Occult Room — presumably in case there were any interesting prints round about the Colet’s position in the shelves — and the rest of the party went upstairs again.
When the Inspectors had gone on to Johnny’s office, old man Lincoln cleared his throat loudly, and, to Sally’s horror, proceeded to make her a short speech. He thanked her formally for her discovery of the Colet, and then he informed her, with impeccable discretion, that while he was fully aware that she had in Mr William one of the most valuable patrons in the trade, he himself would be delighted to do anything in his power for her at any time. Sally managed to respond suitably, although she was unfortunate enough to catch Johnny’s eye at a critical moment. Patrick was displaying a certain lack of filial piety, and there was a veiled twinkle in Father William’s eyes. Even Mr Charles looked faintly amused.
When the Lincolns and the police had gone, Johnny came into the shop.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid it’s very much as I thought. The police admit that the presence of the Colet on our premises, together with the Pilton story, suggests that Butcher was involved in the theft. They point out that we have no evidence against Francis and Carlington, but they’re willing to investigate them. In that, of course, lies our hope — that something will turn up in the course of the investigation that will link up with the murder. At the moment, Prescott is obviously inclined to think that the Colet affair is purely coincidental. What’s more…’ Johnny frowned slightly ‘…old man Lincoln and Patrick, who know Carlington very well, are emphatically agreed that while he may possibly have got himself involved in the theft, he hasn’t the guts to do a murder.’
‘And you think they may be right?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t back old man Lincoln’s opinion, but Patrick, though you may find it hard to believe, is an extremely shrewd judge of character. And if Patrick takes the trouble to be emphatic about anything, it deserves consideration.’ He paused a moment. ‘All the same, Sally, I’ve got a sort of vague idea at the back of my head, in connection with Carlington. I don’t think we can discuss it now, but if you’ve got nothing to do this evening I’ll come down after the shop’s shut.’
He came down at a quarter past five and sat on the corner of Sally’s desk.
‘I’ve been thinking very hard,’ he said, ‘about the ghost, and the more I think, the more I suspect that it has some connection with the murder. Unless Liza and Mrs Weldon both imagined it, which doesn’t seem very likely, it appeared at the time when Tim thought the knife vanished, and it appeared again beside Butcher’s body after he’d been murdered. Well, that may be coincidence, or it may have some purely psychic connection. But I’m hankering after the idea of a physical connection.
‘Now, I’ve just been having a look at Butcher’s office, and I’m still inclined to agree with Mrs Weldon that she couldn’t have overlooked a flesh-and-blood ghost once the light was on. One can’t be quite sure, of course, given her state of mind at the time. The room, as she said, is a small one, and there’s very little furniture in it. There is a large cupboard, but it’s got shelves inside. The only possible hiding place would be behind Butcher’s desk, with the additional cover of Butcher’s body. But the desk isn’t a solid one like this; it’s just one of those gimcrack office tables, with a few drawers on your right and nothing at all on your left — and the ghost would have to be on Butcher’s left.
‘So I’ve been considering another possibility. It may sound a bit far-fetched, but here you are.
‘When you enter the room, the window is in the right-hand wall — the longer wall, though there isn’t much in it for length. The desk stands end-on to it, but well down in the direction of the door. Butcher must have been sitting bang in the middle of the window. Therefore, when Mrs Weldon saw the ghost, it must have been standing behind Butcher, with the desk between it and the door. In other words, it was within a few feet of the shorter wall facing the door — the party wall — and when it moved into the shadows, away from Mrs Weldon, as she said, it must have moved more or less in that direction. Does that suggest anything to you — the party wall?’
‘A secret door?’ asked Sally. Then she said: ‘Oh! The other side of the party wall is Carlington’s premises — or up above them.’
‘Just so. The two top floors belong to someone else; they were offices, but they were damaged when the house on the other side was hit, and they’ve never been repaired or occupied since. There’s a separate entrance to them from the street, and Carlington has what must be a separate staircase behind his shop leading to his first-floor premises, but there may be a communicating door inside. And that house is about the same age as Two Hundred, you know — early eighteenth century. A good deal older than most of the houses in the street.’
‘Yes,’ said Sally, ‘and Butcher’s office is the room where people were murdered — when Two Hundred was a pub. It’s supposed to have been always the same room, isn’t it? Supposing there was a way through, and the people next door were accomplices.’
Johnny nodded. ‘It would have been a great convenience. If the victims expected treachery at all, they’d expect it to come by the normal door. It would explain, too, how what’s-his-name — the man who became the ghost…’
‘George Swan.’
‘How George Swan managed to get to the corner of the passage before the assassin caught up with him. It’s not impossible that he got out if the assassin came in by the normal door. But it’s a narrow room, and there wouldn’t be much space to dodge or mix it. The situation would be much more logical if the assassin hadn’t had time to get between Swan and the normal door. And the body could be taken out by the secret door afterwards.’
‘That’s very good,’ said Sally. ‘And Johnny, it would explain the disappearance of the knife. Liza’s ghost did take it — between a quarter past five and half-past, just as Tim thought. And he came through the secret door then because he couldn’t come through while Butcher was in his office. And he could have known Butcher wasn’t in his office, if Butcher had just called on him to collect the Colet and mentioned that he was on his way to The Bunch of Grapes.’ She stopped. ‘That is, if the Lincolns are wrong in thinking he hasn’t the guts to do a murder.’
‘Yes,’ said Johnny, ‘that’s perfectly sound. And he could have been Mrs Weldon’s ghost too. If he saw her at the back door from Butcher’s window, and not from his own, he’d have plenty of time to set the stage. Assuming he had his sheet, or whatever, it was fairly handy, and if he’d been Liza’s ghost earlier in the evening, that’s quite likely.’
Sally frowned. ‘Yes, but if he saw her at the back door, why bother? He might assume she was coming to Butcher’s office, if he saw her look up at the lighted window, but why not just slip through the secret door and shut it behind him?’
