Bodies from the Library 6, page 1
BODIES FROM THE LIBRARY 6
Forgotten stories of mystery and suspense
by the Queens of Crime
and other Masters of the Golden Age
Selected and introduced by
Tony Medawar
Copyright
Collins Crime Club
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by Collins Crime Club 2023
Selection, introduction and notes © Tony Medawar 2023
For copyright acknowledgements, click here
Cover design by Holly Macdonald/HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Cover illustration: Shutterstock.com
These stories were written mostly in the first half of the twentieth century and characters sometimes use offensive language or otherwise are described or behave in ways that reflect the prejudices and insensitivities of the period.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008522773
eBook Edition © September 2023 ISBN: 9780008522780
Version: 2023-08-03
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
NO EVIDENCE
Alice Campbell
POST HASTY
Andrew Garve
GREEDY NIGHT
E. C. Bentley
THE BLACKMAILERS
Cyril Hare
DEATH TRAVELS FIRST
John Rhode
THE WHOLE TRUTH
Anthony Gilbert
A PIECE OF CAKE
Christianna Brand
THE MYSTERY MAN OF SOHO
Margery Allingham
THE COMMOTION AT SAN GIOVANNI
George Bellairs
THE GLASS GRAVESTONE
Joseph Commings
THE MYSTERY OF THE CORRIDOR EXPRESS
Victor L. Whitechurch
SINISTER SEQUENCE:
PART ONE: THE SINISTER STRANGER
Michael Cronin
PART TWO: THE SINISTER SUITCASE
Geoffrey Household
PART THREE: THE SINISTER SMILE
Laurence Meynell
PART FOUR: THE SINISTER HOUSE
Dennis Wheatley
PART FIVE: THE SINISTER CLOCK
L. P. Hartley
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Authors
Also available
About the Publisher
INTRODUCTION
‘Her Grace tells me that a respectable Battersea architect has discovered a dead man in his bath.’ ‘Indeed, my Lord? That’s very gratifying.’
Dorothy L. Sayers, Whose Body?
Welcome to the sixth volume of Bodies from the Library, the series of criminous anthologies from Collins Crime Club. Together with Ghosts from the Library, its supernatural counterpart, Bodies from the Library aims to bring you lost treasures from the libraries and archives of the world.
In this new anthology of unknown, unpublished and uncollected stories by writers from the Golden Age of crime and mystery fiction, there is a previously unknown novella by Anthony Gilbert and—unseen for almost a century—the original unexpurgated text of Margery Allingham’s short novel The Mystery Man of Soho, as well as a hitherto unpublished radio play by John Rhode and a long forgotten round-robin novella by five thriller writers including Geoffrey Household and Dennis Wheatley. And you will also find E. C. Bentley’s affectionate parody of Lord Peter Wimsey, the creation of his friend Dorothy L. Sayers, together with little-known stories by Christianna Brand, Cyril Hare, Alice Campbell, Andrew Garve and others.
In the last ten years the Golden Age has been resurgent, thanks mainly to the British Library (who also sponsor the annual ‘Bodies from the Library’ literary event) and small print presses like the American publisher Crippen & Landru, founded by Douglas G. Greene, and Dean Street Press, where the late and much missed Rupert Heath has brought many lost writers back into print. Geoff Bradley’s CADS magazine (standing for Crime And Detective Stories) has brought together some fine scholarship, helping the elevate the reputation of detective fiction and many of its forgotten exponents, and many online blogs highlight the best and worst of crime fiction past and present—Kate Jackson (the Armchair Sleuth) and Steve Barge (the Puzzle Doctor) to name but two. Most important of all, dozens of contemporary authors—including Ann Cleeves, Victoria Dowd, Martin Edwards, Jane Harper, Peter James and Tom Mead—continue to build on the legacy of the Golden Age with thrilling and ingenious new stories of crime and detection, helping us all to continue to enjoy the life of crime.
Tony Medawar
April 2023
NO EVIDENCE
Alice Campbell
Out of the blanketing fog she slipped with an air of relief into the cinema lobby, a refuge warm, mistily bright. A trail of damp vapour followed her through the door, a haunting reminder of the world she had left behind. Her face tingled with the rawness, but she did not feel cold. She was even a little out of breath with hurrying.
‘I suppose there are no two-and-fourpenny seats left?’ she asked at the box-office—from habit, for tonight she was quite prepared to pay three-and-six, or even five-and-nine.
‘Plenty of two-and-fours this evening, ma’am. This is about the only weather that hits our business,’ the girl informed her, and shot a blue ticket through the aperture.
She laid down half-a-crown. In spite of the temperature her hands were bare, the narrow wedding ring hanging loose on her third finger. Absently she picked up her change.
‘Yes, it’s a beastly fog, isn’t it? But I fancy it will be gone by morning.’
The commissionaire recognised her and smiled, touching his braided cap. More than once he had chatted with her on crowded nights while she waited for a seat. That was when she had worked late and come straight on from the office. The films helped her to sleep when she was over-tired, so she had told him. She didn’t look too strong, though she had plenty of spirit. A lady, too, one of the proper sort. He saw too many of the half-and-halfs not to know the difference.
‘If you hurry, madam, you’ll be in time for the big picture,’ he informed her, holding open the baize door.
In the smoke-laden darkness she blundered to a seat, scarcely heeding the guiding star of the usher’s torch. Once there she sank back with a deep breath, closing her eyes. Her hands, resting upon her bag, clasped together tightly.
How tired she was! Too exhausted to relax … The chief was right, she really must take a complete rest, go away somewhere. Well, perhaps she might manage it after all. She could safely leave Martin for a couple weeks now. Ada would look after him and see that he got up in time for school. He was a big boy now, fourteen, tall for his age. Tall and strongly built, like … He had her eyes, though. There was a look of her father about him. Only rarely did she catch a glimmer of something less welcome, disquieting—that impish and infantile something she had learned to distrust. Thank Heaven he had outgrown it, left it behind …
She forced herself to take long, regular breaths, to let herself go. That was it, she must let go. Stupid to have to keep repeating the fact that there was nothing to bother about, no need to tighten up. Of course if she had gone straight home she would have lain awake for hours, nerves jumping. No good doing that. The music soothed her. That strain was from the New World Symphony, garbled a bit, but what a dulcet, gentle theme, cradling one to a sense of security. Dvořák had got it from the American Deep South. ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’—that was it. Martin was whistling it the other day, without knowing what it was. So peaceful, so … Her thoughts trailed off. Once more she found herself rigid, clutching her bag with fingers of steel. Here, this wouldn’t do! What was the film about, anyway?
For a time she fixed her eyes determinedly on the screen. The shifting tints of monochrome flashed by, devoid of meaning, while through them she gazed at other scenes, fresh in her memory. Nerves, nerves! With an effort she wrenched herself free, strove to direct her imagination. Since she must think, let it be to some purpose. A new article, a point of view she could turn into money.
Fleet Street, the grimy offices … What a tiresome lot of drivel she had ground out lately! Who on earth read the stuff? ‘Puddings for the Growing Boy’—‘Books Which Form the Future’—‘Holiday Outfit for Switzerland’—as though she knew anything whatever upon these subjects! Switzerland, though … that was an idea. Why not postpone this holiday of hers and take Martin to Mürren? He had been talking about it for two years, only she had been too hard up. The white sunlit spaces, the cold remote peaks would give her the placidity she wanted, smooth out her tangled mind. Tomorrow she would get some of those fascinating booklets, she and Martin would pore over them together.
She pulled herself up suddenly. No, not tomorrow. What was she thinking of? There would be far too much to do. Next week, though? Where was she? Oh, yes, Fleet Street. What a day it had been! She had not been able to finish. Then this wretched fog. That’s why she had walked all the way, rather than trust herself to a bus. Every step of the way. Why, it must have taken her ten minutes to cross Trafalgar Square! Anyhow it was—what time was it when she had entered that huge, crowded Corner House? It was—yes, it was eight o’clock exactly, she had noticed the clock. How slow the service had been! One wouldn’t believe it possible to wait so long for a simple order like two poached eggs and a pot of tea. How many similar orders did the waitresses fill in the course of an evening? She had felt herself one of a horde, as though her identity were lost and she should be ticketed with a number.
Painstakingly, with concentration, she dwelt on these details, visualising every step of her difficult progress through the obscured traffic—Fleet Street to the Corner House, from the Corner House here. Curious how, as the thing took definite form, it brought her back to the ground of normality, dispersed the swarm of fancies that had tormented her. That was proof that her will was strong, that she was well able to take herself in hand. When she got home she would have some hot milk and perhaps one aspirin. Then she would sleep soundly and wake rested, ready to go on …
When she emerged from the cinema the fog had thinned a little. One could see the buildings opposite and even the clumsy buses trundling along the Tottenham Court Road, comfortably sure of their course. At the corner she boarded a Number Nineteen, which would take her without change to Paultons Square. Revived now and collected, she began to figure tentatively and with a thrill of anticipation the probable expenses of the holiday in Switzerland. Of course—and for a second, fear gripped her heart—something might happen which would upset the scheme; still there was no harm in planning. She would not mention it to Martin just yet, in case of disappointment.
With her latch-key she let herself into her tiny house, switched on the light, glanced into the dining-room. It was warm and inviting, the coals in the grate glowing red. On the table stood a plate of sandwiches and a thermos bottle, left by Ada in case she had had nothing to eat. Ada was good! She must take care not to wake her.
She made up the fire into a cheerful blaze, for there was something she wanted to do before going to bed. Not yet, though. She would take off her things and listen to see if Martin was asleep.
‘That you, Mums? I heard you come in.’
It was the boy’s sleepy voice calling to her as she mounted the stairs. She opened the door of his room softly.
‘S’sh—you ought to be asleep. It’s a quarter to twelve!’
‘I have been. I say, come inside a moment. Put on the light.’
She did so, the illumination disclosing an untidy litter of books and clothing, intersected by the wires of a home-made radio. From the bed looked out a frostily rosy face, blue eyes blinking in the sudden light beneath tousled fair hair.
Her first observation was mechanical.
‘Martin! Your new Etons—all dumped down on a chair, and Bildad sleeping on top of them!’
A reproachful Sealyham, ousted from his couch, lumbered to the floor and looked about for a refuge.
‘Sorry, Mums! I do always hang them up, only tonight I got so interested listening in I forgot Bildad. You rotter! Come here!’
He made room invitingly, but the dog, injured in his deepest feelings, had taken himself under the bed.
‘Why didn’t you come home to dinner? Been to the pictures? Lucky! I say, what did you see? Was it exciting?’
She smiled and sat down on the bed, smoothing the tumbled covers.
‘Let me see—what was the name of it? You know what a memory I’ve got for titles. It was that girl with the—’
‘Where’d you go? Marble Arch? Oh, that little place! Why, you must have seen Rita Bolo in “Broken Pinions”. Awful slush. Why didn’t you go to a real film?’
‘Bolo—yes, that’s the name. Little blonde thing with curls, rather like Bubbles.’
He withered her with scorn.
‘Rita Bolo? You’re all off! She’s the skinny girl with big eyes, drops from an aeroplane into the water. I say, were you asleep?’
‘Not quite.’ She laughed apologetically. ‘I was too tired to notice much, though. I just let it wash over me.’
Pulling off her small dark felt hat she slid her cold fingers through her hair, ruffling it back off her forehead. It was fair and soft, a nimbus framing her delicate features and modifying their look of serious intentness. He examined her with detached approval.
‘I like you better without your hat. You are tired, though. Had a rotten day?’
‘I have, rather.’
‘Beastly! I tell you what—give the bally old office a miss tomorrow and stay in bed. You ought to, honest. Nobody’ll mind.’
‘It’s not so easy, dear. Anyhow, I’ll be all right in the morning.’
He scowled.
‘I hate your slaving the way you do. You usedn’t to. It doesn’t seem right … I’ve made up my mind about one thing, though. I’m not going to any university, no matter what you say. As soon as I’ve finished that jolly old school—that’ll be four years—I’m going to find a job. By the time I’m twenty I mean to be earning my living and helping you as well.’
She smiled, her small, set face softening wonderfully. She put out her hand and touched his cheek.
‘Do you, Martin? Well, we’ll see. Perhaps it won’t be necessary.’
‘I mean it, though, you can’t stop me.’ He pulled at the cuffs of his striped pyjamas, a sort of embarrassed hesitancy overtaking him. ‘Mums—what do you think? I saw Daddy again today. That makes three times this week. I was surprised!’
She stiffened suddenly, the eyes which a moment before had appeared very young hardening with a glint of steel. Yet her reply was cheerfully casual.
‘Did you? Where?’
He did not look up.
‘He was waiting for me when I came out into Victoria Street … I say, he is rather marvellous, isn’t he? Awfully … I’d forgotten what he was like … Different, though. I don’t just know why … Not a bit like other boys’ fathers. They’re so serious, so … he’s all gay, laughing about little things they’d never notice. It’s fun to be with him, sort of exciting, somehow. You know, all froth and foolishness. I can’t quite explain what I mean. Did you find him like that, ever? Before he went away?’
‘Oh, yes, rather. He was—like that.’
She fingered her hat, pulling it carefully into shape.
‘He took me to Rumpelmayer’s in a taxi.’ We had a simply ripping tea, all kinds of creamy cakes, some with squidgy brown stuff over them. What do you call it? Oh, yes, marron. It was great. Then we went to Hamleys, in another taxi, and looked at the model yachts. Oh, beauties! They go like anything. He’s promised me one, as soon as I decide which kind I want. He’s coming with me to sail it. It will be fun! We knocked around till seven o’clock, then he left me at the Underground, because he had an appointment. He gave me a pound. ‘Wasn’t it topping of him?’
‘Topping.’
‘He hasn’t got to live in the south of France any more now, his health is so much better. He says he’s taking a flat off Park Lane, I’m to go there heaps when it’s finished. It’ll be rather marvellous—all modern colours, with big mirrors and paintings on the walls. Hardly any chairs, just big divans, and lots of cushions, like they have in the East. Sounds queer, don’t you think? I’m not sure I shall like it, but he says I shall … Mums, why exactly did Dad go off? Was it his nerves?’
There was an infinitesimal pause before she answered.
‘A sort of nerves, I think, Martin. As you say, he’s—different.’
He nodded, with a flash of understanding.
‘I know. He can’t stand things, can he? Yet he’s always laughing. When I told him how bad I was at Latin he thought it was a tremendous joke … He said some rather odd things. For one thing, he called your paper a rag, and said nobody he knew ever looked at it. He said—’
