The Two Hundred Ghost, page 7
‘Prescott left it at that for the moment, and in the afternoon returned to the shop and took Tim and Liza and me — and I presume you — over the five-fifteen to five-thirty period. I had the impression then that something was worrying him. He then went back to Fred and informed him that at the time when he swore he was creeping stealthily up to the History Room to collect the weapon, the staircase was heavily invested by you and Liza, and Tim was making a careful search of the rooms for a ghost. That wasn’t final, of course. It isn’t certain that the knife vanished about that time. But Prescott also informed Fred that Butcher hadn’t been killed before about eight o’clock that evening at the earliest. Fred’s half an hour to an hour after five-twenty came nowhere near the mark. Indeed, I imagine his whole confession was so confused and inaccurate that it just couldn’t be true. So he’s right in the clear.’
‘Oh, I’m glad,’ said Sally.
Johnny nodded quietly. After a few moments he said: ‘But something’s still worrying you, Sally. Would it be Mrs Weldon?’
Sally looked quickly at him, and he asked: ‘You know about Brownlow?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mrs Weldon told me.’
‘It’s a nasty business. Mrs Weldon’s outburst before lunch yesterday was overheard by one of the coppers — I gather from Tim that you were there at the time — and the copper, as in duty bound, reported it to Prescott. I may as well tell you that Prescott then asked us — the partners — if we knew of any reason for her dislike of Butcher, and the Brownlow story just had to come out. It didn’t look awfully good; Butcher had done his duty in reporting what looked like — and undoubtedly was — a case of embezzlement, but we had to admit to a general impression that he had been unnecessarily unpleasant to Brownlow about it, and his behaviour in the Rosenbaum incident was not altogether called for. And now the wretched man is dying of cancer.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Sally. ‘He died this morning.’
Johnny was silent for a moment. ‘Poor chap,’ he said. ‘But much better for him. Poor Mrs Weldon, much more. Has Prescott called on her yet? He asked for her address this afternoon.’
‘Yes,’ said Sally, and told him something about Prescott’s questioning. ‘I just don’t know if she made a good impression or not. She didn’t seem to care very much.’
‘Has she got any sort of alibi?’
‘I don’t know. Johnny…you said Fred thought he had an idea who had done it. Was he thinking of her?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Johnny. ‘But I rather gathered it was a woman, and he was a friend of Brownlow’s. But there’s not a shred of real evidence against her, that I can see, so don’t worry too much, Sally.’
Sally was worrying quite a lot, and she knew that he was too. But presently she remembered something else. ‘You said Butcher didn’t die before about eight o’clock. Is that medical evidence?’
‘Yes, but keep it to yourself. Prescott told Father William this afternoon — having presumably heard what everybody had to say about their alibis — that the post-mortem has established that Butcher died not less than two hours, and probably not more than three, after his last meal. You and Liza and Tim saw him with his sandwiches somewhere between twenty and a quarter to six, and he had definitely eaten the sandwiches before he died. So he can’t have been killed before about eight o’clock — or to be strictly accurate, very shortly before it.’
‘That seems rather curious,’ said Sally. ‘I mean, I should have thought, as Fred did, that if it was anyone in the shop they wouldn’t have risked leaving it after half-past six. I’m never as late as that myself — or practically never — so I wouldn’t know how late Butcher normally was when he stayed on. But it seems very unlikely he was in the habit of working till eight. Even Miss Mundle doesn’t stay much after six.’
Johnny nodded. ‘Yes, it does seem rather surprising.’ He stopped and looked at her. ‘But I think we’ll leave it at that for tonight, Sally, because I must go home, and you must go to bed.’
Chapter Five
On the following morning the shop was closed, for an inquest was held on the body of Victor James Butcher. The proceedings were trying, but mercifully short. Johnny had thought that if the Coroner were amenable only the bare bones of the case would be brought out in evidence, and Johnny turned out to be right. Besides police and medical witnesses, the only people to be called were Mrs B (who enjoyed herself immensely), Sally, Alf, and an astonishingly respectable uncle of Butcher’s who gave evidence of identity and didn’t seem to have liked his nephew very much. The jury, firmly guided by the Coroner, brought in a verdict of murder against a person or persons unknown, and after that everyone was free to go.
The afternoon started off peacefully enough. But Sally felt it was too much to hope that Prescott wouldn’t bother them today. As it turned out, however, Prescott was only indirectly responsible for the first incident.
About half-past two she had to send for Johnny to deal with a customer. When the customer had gone, he sat down on her desk to discuss the inquest, and they were still talking when Alf came quickly into the shop. His square face was anxious.
‘What is it, Alf?’ asked Johnny.
‘I was looking for you, Mr Johnny, sir. It’s about Mrs Weldon. I think Miss Merton knows something about the trouble she’s in, too.’
‘Yes. Go ahead.’
‘Well, sir, Mrs Lendicott’s just been in to tell me. She stayed with Mrs Weldon last night, you know. The Inspector was there in the afternoon — while Miss Merton was at the flat. He turned up again before lunch today — and it doesn’t look too good, sir.’ Alf paused.
‘It seems the Inspector was questioning Mr Carlington — you know, sir, the old gentleman who has the shop next to this — asking him if he’d seen anyone about this house on the evening of the murder. He lives over his shop, you see. Well, Mr Carlington says he was looking out of a back window a little before nine o’clock, and he saw a lady come down the alley. She stopped just under a streetlamp and looked up at the back of this house. I don’t think he knew her name, but he recognised her as being one of our staff, and from his description, sir, I understand there’s no doubt she was Mrs Weldon. When she’d looked up, she went to the back door, and he thinks she rang the bell. Then she put her hand on the door and walked in. He thought it a bit surprising — her coming at that hour, and it looked as if the door had been unlocked — but as he knew she was one of us he didn’t worry. He didn’t see her come out again — he didn’t bother to watch for her. And he didn’t come forward with his story when he heard about the murder, because he didn’t want to get her into trouble.’
‘And what was Mrs Weldon’s explanation of this?’ asked Johnny steadily.
‘She says, sir, that Charlie Brownlow was very ill that night. They thought he might go before the morning, though as you know he held on till early yesterday. She went straight to the hospital from the shop — they were letting her see him any time. He wasn’t properly conscious when she got there — they had him under morphia — but he came round a bit about half-past seven, and he felt he hadn’t got long. He wanted to see Butcher and make it up with him — to forgive him, so to speak, sir. Charlie was always a very religious man, and he got more so towards the end. He’d had bitter feelings against Butcher, and he didn’t want to die with that on his conscience.’ Alf looked Johnny very straight in the eyes. ‘I knew Charlie well, sir, and I know that’s like him. I’m quite sure she’s speaking the truth.
‘Well, sir, she went out to Butcher’s rooms in Kilburn — took a taxi. But when she got there he was out, and his landlady had no idea where he was. She knew he often worked late — though she hadn’t much hope of finding him at the shop as late as that — but she said she was so desperate she’d have tried anything. She let the taxi go at the end of the alley — her money was running out — and came along to see if his light was on. It was, so she went to the back door and rang the bell. He wouldn’t have heard it from his office, but she didn’t think about that. Then she just put out her hand, never expecting the door to open, but when she turned the handle it did open. She was a bit surprised, but she was too anxious to get to Butcher to worry about it. She went straight upstairs, and when she walked into his office the light was off. When she turned it on, she saw Butcher was dead — sitting at his desk, the way we found him in the morning. She was scared, naturally, and she turned and ran. Downstairs and out of the front door. Well, it looks to me, sir, as if the murderer saw her in the alley — or even at the back door — and just slipped out and into one of the other rooms. But the wife says she was a bit muddled at that point and broke down a bit. It seems she thought she saw the ghost in Butcher’s office.’
‘The ghost?’ said Johnny sharply.
‘Yes, sir. I know Liza and Betty thought they saw it before that. But I think they’ve all been letting their imaginations run away with them.’
‘Quite likely. What confirmation is there for Mrs Weldon’s story? The taxi-driver, Butcher’s landlady — the people at the hospital?’
‘Yes, sir. The sister saw her when she arrived a little after half-past five and she told one of the nurses she was going to look for a friend of Charlie’s he wanted to see. And she got back about half-past nine. But…’
‘Just so,’ said Johnny. ‘That will not impress Prescott. She could have killed Butcher because he refused to come to Brownlow.’
‘Yes, sir. And he’s got something else, though I don’t know if she realises it. He’s discovered that she was a nurse once — she told him herself, when she was talking about Charlie’s condition. At least, she wasn’t a qualified nurse, but she took a bit of the training before she married, in the last two years of the ’14 War. That means she might have known — well…’
‘How to strike,’ said Johnny. ‘Yes, Prescott said something about that. Butcher was killed by someone who knew exactly how to stab from behind so as to pierce the heart. The back of the chair would have been in his way, and he had to strike rather high up on the left-hand side, but he struck inwards and downwards at precisely the right angle.’
‘Yes, sir. I could see it was a pretty efficient job. But there’s one other thing. When Billy and I got here the next morning, the catch of the lock on the back door was put back. I couldn’t see anything missing in the packing department, but of course I was going to report it. Then Butcher was found, and I — I didn’t mention it, sir. I’m sorry; I know I did wrong.’
‘No comment,’ said Johnny. ‘This suggests, Alf, that whoever murdered Butcher deliberately secured himself a means of access beforehand — and forgot to put the catch over afterwards.’
‘Then it couldn’t have been Mrs Weldon,’ said Sally. ‘She left the shop just after five — and she couldn’t have come back without being let in by someone. You and Billee and Fred all left after that, Alf. One of you would have noticed the catch.’
‘Yes,’ said Johnny. ‘That’s undoubtedly a point in her favour. I think you’d better bring it to Prescott’s notice, Alf. In fact, I’ll ring him up, and then he can come and ask you about it if he wants to.’
‘I hope he believes me, sir. It won’t look too good, suddenly coming out with it now.’
Johnny looked at Alf’s eminently honest face and smiled. ‘I think he’ll believe you, Alf,’ he said.
The next incident, curiously enough, was a piece of sheer comic relief. Just after Johnny and Alf had left the shop, the bell rang, and Sally recognised the rotund figure of Mr Spitteler. She wasn’t particularly glad to see him, but it might have been someone much worse. Mr Spitteler was what was known in the trade as a runner: one of those middlemen who had no shop of their own, but bought from those who had, or from private owners, books which they knew or more often hoped they could sell to others who had. They were of all types: ex-servicemen who couldn’t find a job; sometime established booksellers who had failed; decayed gentlemen; foreigners of many nations. They were knowledgeable or less knowledgeable, scrupulous or less scrupulous, pathetic, tragic, comic, flattering, aggressive, according to their several ways. They had little in common except presumable financial straits of varying narrowness, and their almost inevitable badge of office — or servitude: a suitcase.
Mr Spitteler removed his hat and made Sally his usual ceremonial bow, not too awkwardly, in spite of his tubbiness. His bald head looked rounder and more polished than ever. He raised it and murmured: ‘The police are here, Mees?’ His round, ugly face was a little apprehensive.
‘Not at the moment,’ said Sally. ‘Will you come in, Mr Spitteler?’
Runners were not widely patronised by firms of Heldar’s standing, who found this means of doing business on the whole unsatisfactory, and since the rare book thefts had begun to increase had been more chary than ever. But a few runners, Spitteler among them, were well known in the trade, and occasionally produced something that was worth buying. Spitteler himself visited Heldar’s, indefatigably, two or three times a week, and now and then made a sale. He dealt for the most part in English books, and up till now had usually seen Butcher, undeterred and apparently not seriously upset by Butcher’s consistent rudeness to him.
He slunk — there was no other word for it — into the shop, and said, still in a low voice: ‘They have been here much, yes?’
‘Several times,’ said Sally.
He glanced furtively over his shoulder. ‘It is not good to have the police on one’s premises — no!’ he said. ‘They go everywhere — stick the nose in everything. And then they pounce — pfft!’ He demonstrated, looking rather like a rubber ball with plenty of bounce in it.
‘They’ve been very considerate,’ said Sally.
Spitteler screwed his face into a portentous frown. ‘It is when they are most correct that they are most dangerous. Look-see, Mees. In Vienna, before the war the Secret Police come to my shop. They are very correct, and I think all is well. But I kid myself — Jesus Göttli, how I kid myself! They look at all my papers, and I know there is nothing dangerous there. Then they go away, saying they will not trouble me again. But two days later they come back — by night — I sleep above my shop. They say they have found proof that I am involved in a conspiracy against the Reich. They arrest me — in my pyjamas — and take me to a concentration camp. Like so…pfft!’ Again he pounced.
‘And how did you get out?’ asked Tim with interest. He had let himself in from the street, and was standing inside the door, grinning. He was always polite to Spitteler but found it impossible to resist pulling his leg.
Spitteler beamed at him. ‘Ah, young Meestair Timothee! You are interested in tales of adventure — of dramatic escapades?’
‘Vastly,’ said Tim. ‘How did you escape?’
Spitteler winked. ‘Ah, that is another tale! I had powerful friends.’
‘Do tell!’ said Tim eagerly.
‘Ah, the boys, the boys! They will always know!’
Sally wondered if, after all, Spitteler could be pulling Tim’s leg. But it seemed impossible. He was too good-natured and innocent.
He told a colourful escape story which neither Sally nor Tim believed for a moment. Then he sighed heavily and said: ‘But that is all past, and I am to England come.’ His English had deteriorated a little in the excitement of his narrative. ‘Yet, even in England there are police — there are ugly things.’ He lowered his voice again. ‘They have not yet made an arrest, no? Do you think they know who has murdered Meestair Butchair?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ said Tim.
‘Do they think it was one of yourselves?’
Tim raised his eyes to Heaven. They said quite clearly: ‘Who but a foreigner would ask such a damned tactless question?’ He himself said briefly: ‘Same answer.’
Spitteler shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh, well. They will find the pairson. Even if it is not the right pairson.’
Tim said rather sharply: ‘The police of this country don’t make mistakes like that, Spitteler.’
Spitteler had to labour the point which Tim had grasped perfectly. ‘Oh, I did not mean quite a mistake, Meestair Timothee. The police have to find someone when a crime has been committed, whether it is a conspiracy against the State, or a quite private murder. It does not matter very much to them, so long as there is a…how do you call it…a stalking-goat?’
‘I think you mean a scape-goat,’ said Tim coldly. ‘But I wouldn’t go about saying things like that if I were you.’
‘I know, I know — it is not safe.’ He glanced furtively over his shoulder again. ‘But we are all friends here, yes?’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Tim with chilly patience. ‘I meant that I wouldn’t go about saying things like that because they just aren’t true.’
Spitteler nodded quickly and nervously. ‘Of course, of course, Meestair Timothee. I was only joking.’ He was almost stammering.
Tim tried to go on looking severe but burst out laughing. Sally had to laugh too. Spitteler looked bewildered.
‘All right, all right, Mr Spitteler,’ said Tim, patting the little man kindly on the shoulder. ‘Never mind.’
‘I do not understand you English,’ said Spitteler helplessly. ‘First you are angry, and then you laugh loudly.’
Sally thought that it wasn’t, perhaps, such a bad summing-up of the English attitude.
‘It’s one of our national sports,’ said Tim. ‘Don’t let it worry you.’
Spitteler looked more bewildered than ever. ‘It does not appear in Alken’s prints of your national sports,’ he said.
At that Tim collapsed on to a chair. Sally recovered herself first. ‘Please try to forgive us, Mr Spitteler,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘You know we’re mad. Now, who did you come to see?’
