The Two Hundred Ghost, page 4
Little Billee had been sent for while she was at the door, and a few minutes later he came out of the office. She saw him pause at the top of the basement stairs. He was frowning as he always did when he was trying to grasp something which was beyond his mental reach. He looked vaguely and rather pathetically worried. Then the constable in the passage said something to him in an encouraging voice and smiled, and he smiled back, happier now, and went off downstairs.
After that Prescott and Stanton went upstairs, presumably to interview the partners, and Sally, feeling that she must do something, managed to finish Hiram P’s Wants List and start on the list for the Antiquarian Book World.
It was nearly one o’clock when the Inspectors came down again, with Father William and Mr Charles. Father William saw them out, and then told Sally to let the staff know they could go to lunch now. Everyone must be back by two, except for Mrs B, who wouldn’t be wanted again today. Either he himself or Mr Johnny would be in the house in case of need.
Sally rang round on the house telephone. When she got to Tim, he invited her rather urgently to lunch with him, and she agreed. She went upstairs to wash and do her face, for the passage cupboard offered no facilities. Unfortunately all the girls were in the ladies’ room, and Miss Bates and Betty were still anxious to ask questions. They all went downstairs together, overtaking Tim on the way.
Betty, who had evidently forgotten the presence of the police, continued to talk rather frankly about Butcher as they started down the last flight. ‘Well, he certainly wasn’t a nice type. I lost my temper with him properly the other day when he was teasing Little Billee. But I wish he hadn’t been murdered.’
‘Take it easy,’ murmured Tim. ‘Remember the cops.’
Betty put a hand to her mouth, but Mrs Weldon evidently hadn’t heard him. ‘Do you?’ she said. She hadn’t spoken a word for the last few minutes, and they all looked at her. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I’m glad he was murdered. I’m glad he’s dead.’ Her plain, middle-aged face was working. Her voice rose suddenly. ‘He deserved to die. I’m glad he’s dead!’ She turned and ran upstairs again. They heard her hard, dry sobs as she went.
Chapter Three
Tim took Sally to a little restaurant off the Charing Cross Road. Some of the staff occasionally lunched there, but today there was no one from Heldar’s but themselves. It was crowded and rather noisy, and they had a table for two, so private conversation was fairly safe.
‘What on earth’s wrong with Mrs Weldon?’ asked Tim. ‘Have you any idea?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Sally. ‘I’m completely bewildered. She’s usually so quiet and…and controlled. She looks a bit strained sometimes — I fancy life isn’t very easy for her. She has that invalid brother she looks after. But I’ve never heard her break out like that before. She didn’t like Butcher any more than anyone else did, of course. But I should have thought—’ She broke off.
‘He didn’t bother her much, I take it,’ said Tim, completing her thought, and added tactfully: ‘She’s not his type.’
‘No. I just can’t see any reason for her feeling like that.’
‘Well, the police are bound to try and find one,’ said Tim gloomily. ‘The bloke in the passage couldn’t have helped hearing her.’
Then he asked her two or three questions about what she had seen in Butcher’s office, obviously trying very hard not to upset her, but not quite succeeding.
‘Prescott asked me about the knife,’ he said at last. ‘I should think everybody in the firm knew it was on my desk. He wanted to know when I last saw it there, and I couldn’t be quite sure. But it’s funny, Sally. I’m almost sure it was there when I came downstairs last night about a quarter past five. And I have a sort of feeling it wasn’t there when I searched the room for the ghost a quarter of an hour later.’
Sally said: ‘It sounds like the old answer. The ghost must have taken it.’ That was a sort of family joke in the firm when anything was missing.
Tim looked quickly at her. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I don’t quite know,’ said Sally. ‘But if you’re right about when it was taken, there was no one else in the house but you and me and Liza. And possibly—’ She stopped short.
‘And possibly who?’
‘Fred,’ said Sally. ‘He came up to the shop with some books a few minutes before you came down. But he was just going home.’
‘Anyway,’ said Tim, ‘we’d probably have seen him if he’d gone upstairs.’ He stopped too, frowning. He said unhappily: ‘Sally, you don’t think…? I know he was shell-shocked and he’s never got over it, but surely he wouldn’t…’
‘I’m quite sure he wouldn’t,’ said Sally. But she was miserably conscious that her voice carried just a shade too much conviction. Was she really quite sure? After last night?
Tim was frowning savagely at his plate. ‘Look, Sally,’ he said after a minute. ‘When I came down that time, I didn’t come straight down. Father had asked me to hunt round his office for a First Caroline Cranthorpe that he’d mislaid, and I stopped off there on the way. It took me a little while to find it. I suppose I was in his office for three or four minutes, and the door was shut. Fred could have slipped up to the History Room during that time. And slipped down again after I’d gone on down and before Liza screamed.’
‘But he couldn’t,’ said Sally desperately. ‘One of us would have seen him as he passed the shop. He’d have to pass it twice. And I heard the door of the basement stairs open and shut when he left the shop. He must have gone downstairs then.’
Tim looked at her without speaking. They both knew that this business of seeing or hearing people from the shop as they went up or downstairs wasn’t absolutely water tight. It was about twenty to one that you would notice them. But occasionally, if you were absorbed in work or conversation, you didn’t.
Presently Sally asked: ‘Did you tell Mr Johnny about the ghost?’
‘Yes, and I imagine that in view of the murder he decided Father William and the police ought to know about it. Quite right, of course. I think he was inclined to agree with you — that the ghost was too like Hughes’ version to be quite true. But I still don’t see what else it could have been. I checked up on the trapdoor with Alf this morning. No new trap has been put in, and he hasn’t touched the old one.’
When they got back Tim produced a key to the front door; Sally wondered vaguely where he had got it. There was a new constable in the shop — presumably the old one had been relieved so that he could have lunch — and the passage was empty. Presently Father William and Mr Charles came in, and Johnny went out. Then the bell rang, and the constable glanced out and admitted Prescott and Stanton. Prescott came straight over to Sally and said: ‘Miss Merton, would you mind coming into the office again? I’ve one or two more things I’d like to ask you.’
In the office he came straight to the point. ‘Miss Merton,’ he said, ‘I understand that there was an incident last night which you didn’t tell me about. I’m not going to say that you ought to have told me about it, or ask you why you didn’t, but I’m going to ask you to tell me about it now. I understand that just before the ghost incident there was some sort of scene in the shop involving yourself, Mr Butcher, and Mr Malling of the packing department. Will you tell me exactly what happened?’
Sally was horrified. Had Johnny decided that the police ought to know about this? She could hardly believe it. Perhaps Fred himself had told Prescott; he was always a little incalculable. In that case Prescott would probably have questioned Johnny about it afterwards, but Johnny would almost certainly have given him an expurgated version.
‘It wasn’t really a scene,’ she said. ‘I didn’t tell you about it because it couldn’t possibly have had any connection with Mr Butcher’s death. In fact, Mr Butcher’s death almost put it out of my head. It was just a silly little thing. Mr Butcher wanted me to go and have a drink with him, and I didn’t want to. Fred came in and rescued me from a slightly awkward situation.’
‘I see, Miss Merton. Was there a quarrel between Mr Butcher and Mr Malling?’
‘I wouldn’t call it a quarrel. Butcher was a little annoyed.’
‘Do you mean that he lost his temper with Mr Malling?’
‘Not as much as that.’ That was strictly true. Butcher had only lost his temper with her.
‘And did Mr Malling lose his temper?’
‘Not really, I don’t think.’
‘He didn’t lose his temper, Miss Merton — please forgive these questions — when he saw Mr Butcher with his hand on your shoulder?’
‘He was rather annoyed. That was all, I think.’
Prescott said, quite patiently: ‘“Losing one’s temper,” and “annoyed,” and so on, are apt to be rather relative terms, Miss Merton. I’m going to ask you a different sort of question. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, of course.’
In which case, thought Sally, you draw your own inference. Oh, no, she would have to answer. Why was she so bad at giving a false impression?
Prescott glanced down at some papers which lay before him. ‘Miss Merton, did Malling call Butcher a “dirty swine,” and tell him to “take his filthy hands” off you?’ His voice stressed the quotations.
Sally hesitated. ‘I believe he said something like that. It didn’t mean much.’
‘Did he use those words?’
‘Yes,’ said Sally.
‘Did Butcher then call him “a chap that makes his living tying up parcels”?’
‘Yes. But Butcher was always being offensive to people, and they got so that they didn’t take much notice.’
‘I see. Did Butcher then use the words: “You’d better be careful, Fred. Don’t excite yourself. We all know you ought to have been in a home years ago.”?’
‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘I told you he was always being offensive to people.’
‘And they got so that they didn’t take much notice? Miss Merton, did you then say to Butcher something like this? “I think you’d better go. Fred’s worth fifty of you. He fought in a war. I believe you kept well out of the fighting in the last one.”’
‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘I was angry with him. I don’t think Fred was.’
‘Possibly he wasn’t angry, Miss Merton. But I think you’re a fairly quiet sort of person, not much given to strong words. Would you have used the words you did if you hadn’t known that Malling was deeply wounded and distressed by what Butcher had just said to him?’
‘Wounded and distressed, yes. But I don’t think he was angry.’
‘I see. And did Butcher say as he went out of the building: “Don’t you think you’ve heard the last of this, either of you”?’
‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘But that was just trying to save his face. He heard Mr John coming downstairs and got out quickly. It was an undignified exit, and he had to try to improve on it. It didn’t mean a thing.’
‘I see, Miss Merton.’ He paused a moment. ‘Now, have you ever known Malling to be involved in a…scene with Butcher on any other occasion? We won’t use the word “quarrel” if you don’t like it, but you know just as well as I do what I mean.’
Sally felt she disliked Prescott very much. ‘No’, she said firmly and truthfully — or almost truthfully. ‘I never have.’ There had been one or two arguments, of course. Generally when Butcher had been baiting Little Billee, and Fred, with characteristic generosity, had stood up for him. But there had usually been someone else there to intervene. There had never been anything like the scene last night, or like the flaming row between Butcher and Tim in the tearoom last week. Sally remembered it with sudden, uncomfortable clarity. The two of them, up on their feet, Butcher savagely accusing Tim of trading on his position as a Heldar, Tim very white and with something of his great-uncle’s dignity about him. But he had looked very young and very angry, and Sally was pretty sure that if Johnny hadn’t come in, they would have come to blows. Supposing Prescott heard about that—
He was looking at her closely. But he said only: ‘I see,’ and she wished furiously that he would stop saying it.
But after that he let her go. She found Johnny in the shop, talking cricket to the constable.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I just came down to give you some entries for the ABW list — that is, if it’s going in this week.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Sally, and took the three typed index cards he held out to her. She was mildly surprised; Liza generally brought them down herself.
‘By the way,’ said Johnny. ‘Professor Harborne; Is he slightly peculiar?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sally, surprised again. ‘He’s a little nervous, and I believe very much of a recluse, but he’s always seemed quite normal. Why?’
Johnny grinned, and so did the constable. Johnny said: ‘Well, he’s just been here — he performed on the bell in a sort of incoherent Morse Code until we had to open to him. His manner struck us both as a trifle odd. When I said we were shut he got extremely upset. When I repeated it, he practically danced on the doorstep. He evidently’ — Johnny’s voice changed a little — ‘“wanted to see Butcher”. I didn’t want to upset the little creature any further, so I told him I was afraid he couldn’t see anyone today and asked if I could take any message. He said no, and then he bolted off down the Charing Cross Road like a scared rabbit. Isn’t he usually like that?’
‘He’s always a little jumpy. Not quite like that. Perhaps the “Closed” notice upset him.’
‘Perhaps. What’s his line?’
‘Restoration Drama.’
‘What?’ Johnny laughed loudly. To the baffled constable he explained: ‘Some of the hottest stuff in English literature.’
‘What, him?’ said the constable.
‘Well, after this unseemly interlude, I must go back to my work,’ said Johnny. He smiled at Sally and went upstairs.
Sally went back to the ABW list. She noticed the open diary beside her machine. Johnny had entered Professor Harborne, in his firm, strong hand. In the column normally devoted to the visitor’s business he had written:
(?) Bats.
She felt very slightly better. But as she looked up again, she saw Stanton starting down the basement stairs. A minute or two later he came back with Fred, and they went into the office.
The interview lasted nearly twenty minutes, and when Fred came out again, alone, Sally saw that his hands were gripped tightly together in front of him, and that his whole body was shaking. She got up and went quickly down the passage. The constable could listen if he wanted to.
‘It’s all right, Fred,’ she said gently, as she had said it last night. ‘Don’t let it worry you.’
He didn’t answer. He looked at her with a sort of grateful despair, and then turned and went uncertainly down the basement stairs.
Soon after that Prescott appeared in his overcoat. He went upstairs and came down again with Father William, and the two of them went on down to the basement. Sally was suddenly afraid. Was Fred going to be arrested? She found the next few minutes almost intolerable. But at last they came upstairs again, and though Father William looked as quietly worried as he had done all day, there was no suggestion in his face of any further tragedy. Sally, immensely relieved, noticed that Prescott was carrying what looked like a book, tied up in brown paper. Hughes, she thought suddenly. That was why they had gone to the basement. Prescott was going to read up the Two Hundred ghost. And perhaps test the book for fingerprints.
Then he and Stanton went away. Father William saw them out, and then asked Sally to send for the staff.
She rang round again, and in about two minutes they were all in the shop. Alf stood quiet and solid between Fred and Little Billee. Fred’s face was grey, and his hands still shook a little. Little Billee still wore his anxious frown. Mrs Weldon stood a little behind the other girls, her face almost expressionless.
Father William said quietly: ‘The police have finished with us for today. Will you please clear up any urgent work you may have to do, and then go home? Miss Merton, I gather that one or two persistent customers have ignored your notice. If you don’t mind, I should like you to stay on till five o’clock in case it happens again. What about deliveries, Alf? Is there anything urgent?’
‘I don’t think there’s anything that can’t wait till tomorrow, Mr William.’ Alf glanced almost imperceptibly at Little Billee; he was telling Father William that Little Billee was upset, that he’d better not be sent off on his own today, and, perhaps, that in his innocence he might talk too much.
‘Very well,’ said Father William. ‘Now, I want to ask you all not to talk about what has happened. The news will be in the papers, of course — it may well be in the evening papers now, so everyone will know that Mr Butcher has been murdered. Your friends will ask you about it, and possibly reporters will ask you about it. Please don’t tell them anything that isn’t necessary — and in the case of reporters please don’t tell them anything at all — because publicity is a very unpleasant thing. I’m very sorry indeed that you should all have been involved in an affair of this sort. But we are involved — all of us — and we can only see it through and try to do the best we can for ourselves and the firm. That’s all. Please be here at the usual time tomorrow morning.’
