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NEVER BEFORE, within living memory, had such a thing happened in the little hamlet of Brensford. That the river Turtle, here in its upper reaches no more than a brook, should misbehave itself so devastatingly, was unheard of. And on August bank holiday, too, when all the inhabitants should have been out and about, enjoying themselves.
The parish of Brensford consisted of two parts, rather less than a mile apart, and separated from each other by a tract of fertile arable land. Brensford Street, so called because it was situated along the old Roman road, and Brensford Green, on higher ground to the east. The river, barely a couple of yards wide and normally little more than a foot deep, ran through Brensford Street. Along the foot of the lawn of Stream House, by a culvert under the road, now a main thoroughfare, then through the garden of The Elders.
The road, busy with traffic, especially on bank holiday, crossed the river at right angles. It descended into the valley, at the foot of which was the village, then rose again. To the driver of a car, the slopes were almost imperceptible. On the road, or standing back a little distance from it, were the few houses which comprised the hamlet.
Brensford Green, a more ambitious community, lay away from the main road, from which it was reached by a side turning about a mile from the culvert. It contained the parish church, the rectory, the general shop and post office, and a few score small houses, some old, others of recent date. In one of the latter lived the village policeman, Constable Knipe.
The houses in Brensford Street were all old, dating from the seventeenth century. The largest of them was Stream House, where lived a middle-aged couple, George and Mary Fosdyke, It was a big, rambling place and from its appearance must have been altered and added to from time to time. It stood in a fork, of which the two prongs were the main road, and a secondary road from the neighbouring village of Plestham, which joined the main road close by the culvert.
The house could be approached from two directions. One was by a narrow gateway on the main road, and across a foot bridge over the river. From this a gravel path led along the edge of the lawn. But the main entrance, and the only one that could be used by vehicles, was from the Plestham road. There was a wide gateway, leading into an extensive yard. On one side of this was the house, with the front door, over which was a porch. On the other side was a row of outbuildings, including a double garage.
On the other side of the main road, standing directly upon it, was a rather smaller house, The Elders, inhabited by Colonel and Mrs. Heckley. The entrance was also into a yard, separated from the house by the river. Connection between the two was provided by a wide but somewhat precarious wooden bridge. At the end of the garden, on the same side of the river as the house, was a collection of pigsties and poultry houses, the occupants of which occupied the whole time of the Colonel and his wife.
Next to The Elders, separated from it by a fairly spacious pull-in, was the Rolling-Pin Inn. The origin of its somewhat unusual name was not known. Within recent years the brewers had employed an artist to depict as a sign a pastry cook, brandishing an enormous rolling-pin above a slab of pastry. The inn, with its bar, parlour and clubroom, was kept by Mr. and Mrs. Grayshott, past middle age, but both extremely active. Owing to its commanding position on the main road the Rolling-Pin did nourishing trade, not only in liquor but also in light refreshments.
These three houses lay in the lowest part of the valley. As the main road ascended the gentle slope in the direction of Owlsworth, the market town four miles from Brensford, it was flanked on either side by a half a dozen small houses in which lived workers employed on the surrounding farms. The last house actually in the parish was Brensford Hall, a fair-sized house with extensive grounds. The Hall stood at the top of the rise, almost hidden by trees from the main road, roughly half a mile from the Rolling-Pin.
At the Hall lived Mr. Donald Carswell, a widower in his early fifties. He was a man about whom hung a certain atmosphere of mystery. He was known to be the Managing Director of Reliant Brushes Ltd., a firm with a factory in the East End of London. But rumour had it that he had other interests as well, though what these were nobody seemed to know.
Least of all George Fosdyke, although he was Carswell's first cousin. The two had quarrelled years ago, over some property that Carswell's father had left to his nephew, of whom he had been very fond. Carswell had maintained that the property should have been left to him, as had the remainder of his father's estate. He had accused Fosdyke of having wheedled the legacy out of the old man when he was in his dotage. The quarrel had come to blows, and had left a rancour behind it which had never been appeased.
Carswell kept an establishment at the Hall, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Weedon, a middle-aged married couple, and their son Chris. The parents ran the house, Weedon being the butler, and his wife the cook. Chris was chauffeur, gardener, and general handyman. He drove the car when required, helped in the garden, and set his hand to anything else he was called upon to. He was twenty-five, good looking and indolent.
To all appearances, Donald Carswell was regular in his habits. On five days a week he was driven by Chris to Owlsworth station, where he caught the nine-five train to London. Chris met him again at seven-twenty and drove him back to the Hall, where dinner was waiting for him. Occasionally visitors were invited to the Hall for the week-end. A man, or sometimes two, with whom Carswell sat up far into the night. They were by no means always the same, and Carswell gave his domestic staff to understand that they were business friends of his. He referred to them as Mr. Smith or Mr. Brown.
On the week-ends when he had no visitors, Carswell usually went visiting himself. He would drive away in his car by himself on Saturday morning and return on Sunday night. He told nobody where, he went. Chris, who was of an inquisitive disposition, noticed that the mileage recorder of the car on its return indicated that it had covered a distance of about a hundred and fifty miles since it had set out.
Bank Holiday, which fell that year on August 4th, started promisingly enough. A warm bright early morning, with all the prospect of a fine day. The coach which had been hired to take a party to Turtlemouth, a resort on the coast thirty-five miles distant, drew up outside the Rolling-Pin at half-past nine. A group of people, men, women and children, among them Mr. and Mrs. Weedon, was waiting for it. They climbed in and, after a delay for a handful of stragglers, the coach drove off. It was due to return at half-past seven that evening, in time for the social to be held in the parish hall at Brensford Green.
The Fosdykes had visitors staying at Stream House over the week-end. George Fosdyke was a retired civil servant, enjoying a comfortable pension, and his wife Mary had an income of her own. They lived comfortably and quietly in their rambling old house, going out in their car occasionally, but otherwise spending most of their time at home. They depended for domestic help upon two women from the Street, who came in daily. But no help could be expected on Bank Holiday. The two women had gone off with the party to Turtlemouth.
The visitors were Harry and Grace Plaxtol. They had driven from London on Saturday, and were to drive back that 7 evening. Harry Plaxtol was a solicitor, and his wife Grace was a cousin of Mary Fosdyke. The two couples, all four of them much the same age, had known one another nearly all their lives. Since George's retirement, the Plaxtols had been frequent visitors to Stream House.
It had been agreed that the best thing to do on Bank Holiday was to stay at home. There was not much point in going out, only to be held up every few miles by traffic jams. While Mary and Grace busied themselves with household duties, George and Harry spent most of the morning sitting on deck chairs on the lawn. From where they sat, they could see across the main road the entrance to The Elders. A car came along from the direction of Owlsworth and turned into the yard.
“That's the Colonel's car,” George remarked. “He told me as we came out of church yesterday that he was throwing a party to-day. Two of them were coming by train from London, and no doubt he's been to Owlsworth to meet them. Two others are driving over from High Eldersham, a Mr. and Mrs. Merrion. I don't know any of them, but we shall meet them all this afternoon.”
“Do we go across and join the party?” Harry asked.
“No, we don't do that,” George replied. “There would hardly be room for us. I asked the Colonel to bring them over here after tea. They sound an interesting lot. The Colonel told me that during the war the men were engaged in different branches of Intelligence, and met fairly frequently. He thought it would be a good idea to have a reunion, so that they could chat about old times.” The day did not fulfil its early promise. Shortly before noon a heavy bank of cloud appeared, and George and Harry were driven indoors by a sudden downfall of rain.
“It's a pity,” George remarked as they sat in the lounge. “I hope the day won't be spoilt for the coach party. But this weather may be quite local. We often get a thunder shower in this valley when everyone else seems to escape it. And the glass doesn't fall, so I don't suppose it will last long.” But George's prediction turned out to be at fault. The rain continued with ever increasing intensity. As a clap of thunder reverberated through the valley, the heavens opened and the rain seemed to fall not in drops but in sheets. “I hope it will stop before it's time for us to start back,” said Harry. “I don't want to have to drive through this sort of thing.” Far from stopping, the rain continued to fall in torrents. The river, usually so placid, rose until it filled the culvert, this allowing insufficient passage for the water, which overflowed on to the road. By the time that lunch was over, and the four of them were sitting in the lounge having coffee, the water was creeping over the farther edge of the lawn.
“I've known this happen once before,” said George. “It's the culvert that's the trouble. It's not big enough to carry away the water when the river rises. I'm always telling the Council people that they ought to widen it. But I don't suppose the water will rise much higher now.” As he spoke, the rain turned to hail. It fell, not in ordinary hail stones, but in lumps of ice, some of them the size of a billiard ball. In an instant the glass roof of the greenhouse was shattered to fragments. The lawn became covered with a carpet of ice, melting rapidly in the warm air.
“This is terrible!” Mary exclaimed. “I'm not worrying so much about the greenhouse, because that's insured. It's not the first time we've had panes broken by hail. But I've never seen anything like this. It'll ruin the crops, just as they were coming on so nicely, too. I don't know what the farmers will be thinking. That beautiful field of wheat of Mr. Ventnor's, just up the Plestham road will be cut to pieces.”
“Whatever he thinks, there's nothing he can do about it,” George replied. “I don't like the way the water's rising. It's over the yard already. I don't suppose that it will come into the house. All the same, it wouldn't be a bad idea to take up the rugs on the ground floor and carry them upstairs, just in case.” The others agreed to this, and they set to work. They were just in time, for they had barely finished when the true flood came. A volume of water swept down the valley, almost like a tidal wave, carrying with it icebergs of congealed hail. The force of the impact was such that nothing could resist it. It burst open the french window of the lounge and the water poured triumphantly into the house, defying all their efforts to stem it.
“There's nothing for it but to migrate upstairs,” said George philosophically. “Our dressing-room above the lounge will be the best place. We'll take with us the cigarettes and what drink there is in the sideboard. And there we shall have to stop till the flood goes down.” From the windows of the dressing-room they were able to measure the rise of the water up the wall of the outhouses. Course after course of the brickwork became submerged. The main road was already flooded too deeply to allow cars to pass. Rows of them stood bumper to bumper, in either direction on the slopes which remained free of water. A venturesome lorry, loaded with milk churns, attempted the passage, only to be stuck before it reached the point where the water was deepest. The driver, finding it invading his cab, climbed out and perched himself on the top of his load. Looking, as Grace remarked, not unlike Noah surveying the deluge from the roof of his ark.
But worse was happening nearer at hand, The flood, now two or three hundred yards wide, was pouring down the valley, sweeping everything before it. The fastenings of the doors of the outhouses were unequal to the pressure exerted upon them. The first to yield was the door of the fuel store. It burst open, releasing a ton or more of coke, which floated merrily across the lawn and out of sight. “You'll have a job to retrieve that lot, George,” Harry remarked grimly.
“It's gone beyond hope of any retrieving,” George replied. “There's nothing to stop it between here and Turtlemouth. The coach party there will see it floating in the harbour, but they won't guess where it came from. By jove, look at that!” This time it was the garage door that had yielded to the pressure. It was a double door, and both sides were flung wide open, revealing the two cars within, George's and Harry's. The water in which they stood was well above the axles. “Can't we get them out before the flood gets any deeper?” Harry asked anxiously.
“Where could we get them to?” George replied. “The garage is three or four feet higher than the road. If we pushed them out of the gateway, we should only find ourselves in deeper water. You and Grace will have to resign yourselves to staying here with us till the flood goes down.” With a feeling of utter helplessness they watched the water rising round the cars, hiding first the number plates then creeping steadily up the back panels. “All the works are well drowned by now,” said George. “The nearest place where they can be dried out is in Plestham. We shall have to have them towed there as soon as the road becomes passable again.” “This place you speak of may be flooded out as we are,” Harry replied.
George shook his head. “No fear of that. Plestham stands fifty feet higher than we do. I can ring them up and tell them to send their breakdown outfit along. And we're not the only ones in the same trouble. Look over yonder!” From their elevated position they could see over the waste of waters into the yard of The Elders. Two cars were standing there, the Colonel's and one which George did not recognise. The water was even deeper there, and only the tops of them were visible. As the watchers in the dressing-room leaned out of the windows, they became aware of shouts, against a confused background of grunting, squealing and cackling. A hen, with wildly flapping wings came sailing through the air, to land with a splash beside the cars in the yard. Struggling ineffectively to rise again, it was swept out of their sight.
“That's one gone,” said George. “I can tell you what all the row's about. The Colonel and his party are trying to salvage the pigs and poultry. You can't see it from here, because it's behind the house, but there's a big barn with a loft to it. They'll be getting the stock up into the loft, I expect. And as there's only a steep ladder, I don't envy them their job. They won't stroll over to see us after tea, that's a sure thing. Talking of tea, what are we going to do about that?” “You always were a brave man, George,” Mary replied. “This is what we're going to do about it. You can go down to the kitchen and rescue the electric kettle. There's a plug here we can fit it to, and we can fill it from the bathroom tap. And while you're about it, bring the tea cannister and the milk bottle. And there's a cake in a tin in the larder.”
George did not seem enthralled by the prospect, but Harry volunteered to help him. The two men took off their shoes and socks, and rolled up their trousers as far as they would go. Then very gingerly they descended the stairs, to find the ground floor covered in eighteen inches of water. It was icy cold, owing to the hail stones floating on it. Plucking up their courage, they waded through it to the kitchen. The electric kettle and the tea cannister were standing on a dresser, a few inches above the water level. The larder unfortunately, was down a couple of steps, and there must have been fully three feet of water in it. However, they laid hands on two of the wooden chairs which were floating round the kitchen and lowered them into the larder. Harry held them down while George stepped on to them. The top of the refrigerator was visible and George opened it. The milk bottle standing on the lowest shelf was completely submerged, but he trusted that the cap had kept the water out. The tin, in which was the cake, had been washed from its shelf and was floating round his knees.
They carried their spoil upstairs, to be greeted with a chorus of applause from their wives, who produced towels with which they dried their legs. Then Mary realised that they had brought neither teapot nor cups. “I'm sorry, George, but you'll have to go down again,” she said. “The easiest things to get at will be the Japanese set on the dining-room sideboard. You'll find a tray there, and you can bring the teapot and cups up on it. Never mind about the saucers.” Grumbling, George made a second descent. He was wading towards the dining-room, when he heard a violent hammering on the back door. He wondered who on earth it could be, and how anyone could have got there short of swimming. He waded to the back door and opened it.
Beyond it was a short concrete path, leading to a narrow gateway in a low box hedge, on the farther side of which was the Plestham road. But all this was so deep in water that even the top of the hedge was covered. Standing up to their waists in water were three scared-looking men, and a few yards up the road, in the direction of Plestham, the roof of a car was visible, “We're awfully sorry,” said one of the men, who appeared to be the youngest. “May we take refuge with you? We thought we should be drowned before we could get out of the car.”
“Come in by all means,” George replied. “You won't find the house much drier than it is outside. We've had to take to the first floor. Come along and I'll show you the way.” He led them to the foot of the stairs and called up. “Here are some visitors for you, Mary. They're a bit moist, I'm afraid. See if you can rig them up in some of my clothes. I'll be up in a minute.”
Expressing their heartfelt thanks, two of the men started to ascend the stairs. But one of them remained behind. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have a most urgent appointment with Mr. Carswell. Is there any way by which I can get to Brensford Hall? A boat, or something of the kind?”
George shook his head. “You won't find a boat much nearer than Turtlemouth. We're not used to being amphibious in this parish. Donald Carswell will be all right, for the flood won't reach the Hall. But there's no way of getting there from here till the water goes down. Until it does, I should recommend you to stay here. We can offer you a cup of tea, but precious little else.”
“Then may I use your telephone and speak to Mr. Carswell?” the other asked.
George pointed across the hall, to where the telephone receiver was visible above the surface of the water. The instrument itself was submerged, and the receiver looked as if it was floating. “You can try, if you like. But I expect you'll find that the confounded thing is out of action. It's drowned, as you so nearly were.” George was right. The telephone was completely lifeless. After several attempts the man gave it up. “It's no good,” said George. “You'd better follow your friends upstairs. My wife will find you something dry to put on. You'll have to stay here till you can get to the Hall.” The man, who seemed considerably embarrassed, went up.
George waded to the dining-room, and put the teapot and seven cups on the tray. He carried this up to the dressing-room, where he found only Harry and Grace. “Mary has taken them into the pink room to undress,” Harry explained. “She's looking out some of your kit for them to put on. So we've got a party, after all. Not the Colonel's crowd, but these three bedraggled specimens. Who are they?”
“I haven't the remotest idea,” George replied. “They were coming along the Plestham road in a car, and one of them told me they were nearly drowned before they could get out of it. I believe that, because there's only the roof of the car sticking up above the water. The one who came up last is a friend of Donald Carswell's. I gather that they were bound for the Hall when they ran into the water outside here.”
Harry smiled. “A friend of Carswell's is not likely to become a friend of yours.”
“That's true,” George agreed. “But what could I do? I couldn't very well fling him out neck and crop into the flood. We shall just have to put up with him and his friends. With the telephone gone, we're completely isolated. We shall have to put them up for the night, I'm afraid,”
At that moment Mary reappeared. “I've given them a lot of your old clothes, George,” she said. “They'll have to make do with them as best they can. And if they've got to sleep here, two of them can have the pink room, and we can put up the camp bed in the linen room. What's bothering me is how we're going to feed them. There's not much left in the refrigerator.”
“And what there is is steeped in cold water,” George replied. “But I expect you've got a tin or two stowed away in case of emergency. And if this isn't an emergency, I don't know what is.” The door opened, and the youngest of the three men came in. “We are so sorry to inflict ourselves upon you like this,” he said apologetically. “I'd better introduce myself. My name is Harold Landrake, and I'm the owner of the car. The other two are Andrew Morstow, he's the taller one, and Jerry Newark. They are brothers-in-law, I believe.”
“You were on your way to Brensford Hall, I understand?” George asked.
“Jerry Newark was,” Landrake replied. “Andrew and I were going to drop him there, and then drive back to London. I'll tell you how it was. I've known Andrew for some time. He came round to see me this morning and asked me if I'd do him a favour. His sister's husband had urgent business with a Mr. Carswell at Brensford Hall. Would I drive him there?
“I had nothing else to do to-day, so I said I would. We arranged that the three of us should meet at the garage where I keep my car at two o'clock. They turned up there on time, and we set out. Jerry Newark told me that the place he wanted to get to was four miles short of Owlsworth, so I knew which direction to take. But I wanted to avoid the main road on Bank Holiday, so I struck across country.
“The weather was fine and sunny until we got two or three miles the other side of Plestham, but there we ran into a downpour. In Plestham I saw a signpost to Owlsworth, so I followed that road. Before long we ran into water, but at first it wasn't very deep, so I kept going. Then I suppose we must have gone down a slope, for all at once the water came surging into the car.
“It really was a most terrifying experience. We seemed to be up to our necks in it before we knew where we were. I was driving and Andrew was sitting beside me. We got out after a bit of a struggle. You've no idea how hard it was to open the doors against the water. Jerry didn't seem able to get his open at all. We had to open it for him and drag him out. He was a bit shaken, so we thought we'd better knock on your door and seek a haven of refuge.”
“You'd have been drowned if you'd stayed in the car,” said George. “Have you been to Brensford Hall before?”
“I'd never heard of the place until Andrew told me that Jerry wanted to go there,” Landrake replied. “I'd never even met Jerry until this afternoon. Is Brensford Hall far from here?”
“Rather more than half a mile,” said George. “But to get there now you'd have to go through at least six feet of water. The flood's still rising, as I can see by looking out of the window.” While they were talking Andrew and Jerry had come in. Mary had made the tea and was filling the cups.
Jerry was obviously filled with impatience. He was short and tubby with, George thought, rather foxy eyes. “Only half a mile?” he exclaimed. “Surely there must be some way of getting there? It's really most important that I should see Mr. Carswell.”
George beckoned him to the window. “Look for yourself. The Hall is the other side of that flood you see. You couldn't even leave this house without running the risk of getting drowned. You'll have to make up your mind to stopping here until the water goes down.”
“And how long is that likely to be?” Jerry Newark asked.
George shrugged his shoulders. “Not before the morning, I imagine. The rain appears to be stopping now, but it will take several hours for this lot to drain off. And of course if another storm comes up, that will delay matters still further.”
The party cooped up in the dressing-room could hardly be described as a merry one. The only entertainment was to look out of the windows and watch the flood, which continued to rise, though now more slowly. It rose until it reached the rear windows of the two cars in the garage, and then, almost imperceptibly began to fall. “The turn of the tide,” said George. “But at this rate the ebb will take all night. We can put you fellows up, you needn't worry about that. And it strikes me that a drink would do us all good.” He produced a bottle of whisky that he had salvaged, and a jug was filled with water from the bathroom tap. Mary managed to collect seven tooth glasses from the various bedrooms, and these served as drinking vessels. After a while the party became rather less sticky. Harold Landrake did most of the talking. His listeners gathered that he was something of a young man about town, with no very definite occupation, though he spoke vaguely of reading for the Bar. The other two, particularly Newark, said very little, and nothing whatever about themselves.
The stove in the kitchen was of course submerged, and there was no means of cooking on the first floor. A scratch meal was contrived from a tin of corned beef, toast made at an electric fire, and a few cold potatoes left over from lunch. The party broke up about eleven o'clock, after several more whiskies. George, exploring the ground floor, found that the water had fallen several inches. He and Mary retired to their room, and Harry and Grace to the spare room they had occupied since their arrival at Stream House. It had been decided that Morstow and Newark should share the pink room. Landrake had expressed himself as more than satisfied with the camp bed put up in the linen room.
THE COACH PARTY spent a wonderful day at Turtlemouth. Warm and sunny, without a cloud in the sky. Certainly it looked black in the far distance but not a drop of rain came their way. They all enjoyed themselves thoroughly, and it was with regret that they assembled at six o'clock for the coach to take them home.
Their route lay to the southward of the river, and so to Brensford Green. There the coach was stopped by Constable Knipe, who had taken up his post to warn traffic of the state of the main road. “Brensford Street?” he said in answer to the driver's query. “There's not a hope of your being able to get there. The river's overflowed, and the water's about six feet deep by the culvert. You'd best drop your passengers here.” That was no great hardship to the majority, for most of them had intended to go to the social in the parish hall in any case. But Mr. and Mrs. Weedon were very much concerned. Mr. Carswell would be wanting them back to get his dinner for him. Surely there must be some way by which they could get back to the Hall?
But Knipe, whom they consulted, scouted the idea. “Mr. Carswell will be all right,” he said. “The Hall stands too high for the flood to reach it. But there's the flooded river between it and where we're standing now, and there's no way of crossing it bar swimming; They tell me there's not a lot of water across the lanes Plestham way. But if you were to go round all that way, you'd have to walk five miles or more. And you'd never manage that with your bad leg, Mrs. Weedon.”
“There's no help for it, Ethel,” said Mr. Weedon. “After all, Chris is there, and he'll be able to manage somehow. The best thing we can do is to go to the social. Your sister is sure to be there, and she'll understand the pickle we're in. She'll find us a bed for the night, you can set your mind at rest about that.”
In contrast with the coach party, Mr. Ventnor, of Broadfield Farm, had spent a very anxious day. The farmhouse was about halfway between Brensford and Plestham, and most of the land was on the Plestham side of the main road. In addition, Mr. Ventnor had twenty acres of peas on the farther side of the road, between the Street and the Green.
As Mary had surmised, the hail had destroyed a magnificent field of wheat in something under five minutes. The leaves of the sugar beet in an adjoining field had been slashed to ribbons, but, with any luck, the roots would not be greatly affected. But Mr. Ventnor could afford to regard this damage with some complacency. Knowing from past experience that Broadfield Farm lay in a hail belt, he had always insured his crops against hail damage.
The cause of his anxiety had been the rising flood. Would the water reach his barns and stockyard? If it did, the consequences might be disastrous. He had been single-handed that day, since it was Bank Holiday, none of his hands were at home, for they had all gone on the coach to Turtlemouth. Even if he could manage to drive the stock on to higher ground, the sacks of seed corn in the barns would have to be left where they were.
Mr. Ventnor had spent all the afternoon and most of the evening in the farmyard, watching the approaching flood. It crept across the fields towards the yard, submerging the already stripped wheat. By dusk it had begun to encroach on the yard itself, and he was on the point of releasing the stock and driving the animals into the field of kale, which sloped up towards Plestham village. It wouldn't do them, or the kale, any good but there seemed to be nothing else for it.
And then, almost suddenly it seemed, the water came no farther. Perhaps the failing light was deceptive. Mr. Ventnor fetched a hurricane lamp and stood with it at the edge of the flood. Half an hour passed, and the water did not rise up his gum boots. And then, less rapidly than it had risen, it began to recede. The danger was past.
Mr. Ventnor went indoors, had a hearty supper, then retired to bed. He was up again at dawn next morning, and from his bedroom window could see no water. But the twenty acres of peas was beyond his range of vision. He must go and see how they had fared.
He dressed and went out. He glanced first at the stock, to satisfy himself that they were all right. The stockman would be along very shortly, and he would attend to them. Mr. Ventnor took his car from the shed in which it stood, and drove off in the direction of Brensford. The road was comparatively dry, but for a few deep puddles.
But he got no farther than Stream House. There the road was blocked by a car standing unattended in the middle of it. He guessed what had happened. The car had been overwhelmed by the flood, and the driver and passengers had been forced to abandon it. But it couldn't be allowed to stop there, for nothing could pass in either direction. Mr. Ventnor supplied the milk to the neighbourhood. Apart from inconvenience to other people, his roundsman wouldn't be able to deliver in Brensford.
The derelict car was standing only a few yards from the gateway into the yard of Stream House. Mr. Ventnor opened the gate, thus enabling him to back in and drive out again in the direction of Broadfield Farm. On arriving there, he left his car in the yard and took out a tractor and a length of chain. He went back to the derelict car, attached the chain to it, and towed it by the tractor into the yard of Stream House. It wasn't Mr. Fosdyke's car. But he was good-natured enough not to mind it standing there until its owner came to collect it.
Mr. Ventnor took the tractor back to Broadfield Farm, then set off again in his car. He had no sooner reached the main road than he learnt the fate of his peas. The plants were hanging in clusters on the hedges on both sides of the road. A great heap of them had piled up in the garden of The Elders. The porch over the door of the Rolling-Pin was full of them. How many of them had been swept down the river, there was no telling.
He drove on until he came to the edge of the field in which the peas had been growing. It was almost completely bare. The rush of water had torn the plants out of the ground and carried them all over the parish. And probably all over several other parishes farther down the river.
It was about six o'clock when Harold Landrake woke up. The window of the linen room looked over the Plestham road. He got up and looked out of it, to find the sun had risen and that the morning was clear and bright. The water had drained off the road, but his car was not to be seen.
He knew that no one could have driven it away. Before the engine could be started, the whole system would have to be thoroughly drained of water. It must have been pushed away to make room for the traffic. His own clothes had been laid over a towel horse to dry. Feeling them, he found that they were still damp, but he reflected that they would soon dry on a morning like this. He put them on and crept quietly downstairs. No need to wake the rest of the household.
The ground floor was free of water, but a deposit of slippery mud remained upon it. He made his way across the slime to the front door and opened it. There was his car, standing in the yard. He went out to it and opened the bonnet, to find everything under it covered in mud. The interior of the car was in the same state, with the cushions still wringing wet. What the condition of the battery, situated under the rear seat, must be, Landrake dared not imagine.
As he contemplated this ghastly mess, he remembered something. When his friends had met him on the previous afternoon, Jerry Newark had been carrying a suitcase, which had been put in the boot. It must be completely sodden, but even so Jerry would probably want it. Landrake opened the boot. The suitcase was no longer there.
That was curious, because Jerry certainly hadn't taken it out when the car was abandoned. And it didn't seem very likely that whoever had put the car in the yard had taken it. However, there was nothing to be done about it for the moment.
Landrake returned to the house, where he found George, in dressing-gown and slippers, surveying the mud-covered floors. “Good morning,” he said as Landrake came in. “So I'm not the first up, then. What my wife will say when she sees the state the house is in I tremble to think. From my bedroom window I saw your car standing in the yard. You've been out to look at it, I daresay?”
“I have,” Landrake replied. “It's in a ghastly state. It'll have to be towed to the nearest garage and put right. But I'm not going to trespass on your hospitality till; that's been done. I shall make my way to London somehow, and come back to fetch the car when it's ready. I expect the other two will want to get back as well. Andrew Morstow certainly will, but Jerry Newark may prefer to go on to Brensford Hall.”
“There'll be no difficulty about that,” said George. “A bus stops at the Rolling-pin at half-past eight on its way to Owslworth. It will get you there in plenty of time to catch the nine-five train to London, and you can get breakfast on the train. That sounds inhospitable, I know. But quite honestly, we haven't enough undamaged food in the house to feed you.”
“That will suit us perfectly,” Landrake replied. “But what shall I do about the car? How far is the nearest garage?”
“A mile away, in Plestham,” said George. “But the trouble is we can't ring them up until the telephone has been put right.”
“If it's only a mile, I'll walk there straight away,” Landrake replied. “I suppose there'll be somebody about, even at this early hour?”
“That's a very good suggestion,” said George. “Yes, you're sure to find somebody. The place is called Deben's Garage. Mr. Deben and his family live on the premises. And there are two other cars here in the same plight as yours. While you're about it, you might ask the garage people to collect them too. You'll find the place on your right just as you get into Plestham village.”
After Landrake had gone, George set to work to explore the ground floor. Everywhere the floors were covered in slime, and a brown line round the walls showed the height to which the water had risen. That there should be no argument about it in the future, he took a foot rule and measured the height of this mark above the floor of the lounge. It was exactly twenty-seven inches. Although the rugs and most of the cushions had been carried upstairs, the remainder of the furniture was saturated. Muddy water was still dripping from the interior of the sofa. In the back premises matters were even worse. George switched on the oven of the electric stove in the kitchen, an incautious action which resulted in the blowing of the main fuse. That would have to be replaced without delay. Fortunately the main was overhead, and the switch and fuses were fixed on the wall of the pink room.
George went up there and knocked on the door. A sleepy voice bade him enter. He opened the door, to find the room in semi-darkness, since the curtains were drawn. The main fuse having gone, he could not switch on the light. He groped his way to the window and drew the curtains, filling the room with sunshine. Andrew Morstow, clad in a pair of George's pyjamas, was sitting up in bed rubbing his eyes. The other bed, although it had obviously been occupied, was now empty.
“Hullo!” George exclaimed. “Where's your friend?”
Morstow stared at the vacant bed. “Blest if I know,” he replied. “I hadn't missed him. He was there when I went to sleep last night. Jerry's always like that, restless. He never seems able to stay put. Has the water gone down yet?”
“There's none left to speak of,” George replied. “The road's clear, anyhow.”
“That's it then,” said Morstow. “He seemed desperately anxious to get to Brensford Hall. He must have got up in the night and found that he could get through. That's where he's gone to, I'll be bound.”
George noticed that Newark's own clothes were still hanging up to dry. “If that's the case, he's gone off with my kit,” he remarked. “Never mind, I daresay he'll return it. I've had a word with your friend Mr. Landrake. He won't be able to drive his car again for a day or two, so he means to go back to London by bus and train. He told me that you would probably want to go with him.”
“He was quite right,” Morstow replied, “What time do we start?”
“The bus leaves here at half-past eight,” said George. “I'm sorry we can't offer you any breakfast, but you'll be able to get some on the train.” He placed a chair against the wall, climbed on to it, and renewed the blown fuse. “Mr Landrake has gone to Plestham to see about having his car dried out,” he said as he came down. “He ought to be back in a few minutes. You've got an hour or more before it'll be time for you to start for the bus.”
As he went back to his room to dress, George met Harry on the landing. “Good morning, George,” said Harry. “I saw from our window that the flood had gone down. How are things below?”
“Pretty grim,” George replied. “What are your plans? Two of our uninvited guests are leaving by the half-past eight bus. The one they call Jerry has already cleared out, wearing my clothes. Must you and Grace get back to London to-day? I know you can't drive there. I've already arranged for your car to be towed to the garage in Plestham.”
“That's very kind of you,” said Harry. “No, we needn't go back if you can put up with us here. Grace said just now that perhaps we might make ourselves useful in helping to put things straight.”
“It will certainly take all hands,” George replied. “You'll see for yourself when you get downstairs. And I don't suppose we'll see our two women to-day. They live in the area that was flooded, and it will take them all their time to get their own houses straight. If you've nothing better to do, you might carry the things from the dressing-room back to the kitchen and put on the electric kettle. Don't touch the cooker, whatever you do. It's gone haywire.”
When George had dressed, he went downstairs to see how Harry was getting on. A couple of minutes later the front door bell rang. Landrake back from Plestham, he supposed, but he might have come in without ringing. But when George opened the door he found Colonel Heckley, dressed in a blue sweater, corduroy trousers and gum boots. “Come in. Colonel,” he said. “What can we do for you? You're in much the same state as we are, I expect.”
“House full of mud, cars out of action, that old wooden bridge over the stream carried away,” Heckley replied. “However, we got the pigs and most of the poultry up to the loft in the barn. It's lucky there were so many of us. Laura and I could never have managed it by ourselves. The ducks have disappeared down the river, but maybe somebody will have rescued them by now. And, to crown all, our telephone has packed up. I came across to ask if I might use yours?”
“I'm sorry, but we're in the same boat,” said George. “Our instrument is as dead as a doornail.”
“Then I suppose it means walking to Plestham,” Heckley replied. “I want Deben to tow away Merrion's car and mine and put them to rights.”
“I can save you a walk,” said George. “We've got three cars here that want putting to rights. The owner of one of them, who got stranded here yesterday, has gone to see Deben. When the garage people come along, I'll ask them to pick up your two as well.”
“I'd be glad if you would,” Heckley replied. “The Merrions are staying with us until their car is fit to drive. You must come over and meet them, they're a charming couple. The other two are catching the eight-thirty bus, as I can't drive them to Owlsworth station. Well, I'll get back. Don't forget to tell Deben's people about the cars.”
Soon after the Colonel had gone, Landrake returned. “I've got it all fixed up,” he said. “I saw Mr. Deben, and he promised to send his breakdown lorry along as soon as his men came to work. They'll tow the cars away and dry them out. I gave him my telephone number and asked him to give me a ring when he'd got my car ready. As soon as he does I shall come down and fetch it. And if I may, I shall call here and thank you and Mrs. Fosdyke for all your kindness.”
Harry had made a pot of tea, and he and George carried cups up to their respective wives. Shortly afterwards Morstow came down, dressed in his own clothes. “Yes, they are a bit damp,” he replied to George's enquiry. “But they'll dry off in time. Thanks, I would like a cup of tea. May I have a drop of your excellent whisky to put in it? It'll help to keep the damp out. It's all your fault, Harold.”
“What's all my fault?” Landrake asked.
“Why, that we got soaked through yesterday,” Morstow replied. “If you'd stopped when we first hit the water, we shouldn't have been a nuisance to these good people here. We could have left Jerry to find his own way to Brensford Hall and turned round and driven back to London.”
At a few minutes before half-past eight George escorted Landrake and Morstow to the junction of the Plestham and main roads. Two men, whom George guessed to be the Colonel's visitors, were already waiting there. “The bus should be along any time now,” he said. “Goodbye to you both, and I hope you'll have a pleasant journey.” The bus came in sight as he spoke, and when it stopped the four men got into it. George sighed with relief as the bus moved on. Young Landrake was all right, but he hadn't taken to Morstow at all. And the other chap had been worse. If he had gone to the Hall, George wished Donald joy of him. Birds of a feather.
It struck George that, being on their doorstep, it would be only neighbourly to ask how the Grayshotts had got on. He walked round the side door of the Rolling-pin. It was wide open, and Mr. Grayshott was swilling out the bar with buckets of water. “Good morning, Mr. Grayshott,” said George. “I should have thought you'd had enough water here yesterday without pouring more in.” Grayshott laughed. He was a man whose cheerfulness was proof against all adversity. “I'm trying to wash the mud out. My word, that was a rum 'un yesterday. It came up so fast there was precious little we could do. About a dozen of the folk whose cars were held up managed to wade in here before the water got too deep. And before they'd been here very long they had to sit on the tables in the bar. You never saw anything like it. And I couldn't draw them any beer, for the barrels were all floating about the cellar. They had to make do with what bottles there were on the shelf. Why, I was up to my waist in water serving them.”
“Has the flood done you much damage?” George asked.
“Not a lot that can't be put rightxxx' Grayshott replied. “Mabel was the first to see it coming, and she and I got a lot of stuff upstairs. The chief trouble is that the water has washed the labels off all the bottles that were in the cellar, and I'm blest if I can tell now what's in them. If my customers ask for a whisky and I pour them out a sherry, they won't be best pleased. And how are things with you, Mr. Fosdyke?”
“Much as they are with you,” George replied. “Our chief trouble is that nearly all our grub has got soaked. And the water got into the telephone, so we can't ring up and order some more.”
“That's soon put to rights,” said Grayshott. “We always lay in plenty of grub over the holiday. And a good thing we did, too, because those folk in here yesterday kept on calling for sandwiches. It was close on midnight before the water had gone down enough for them to wade back to their cars. But we've still got plenty left. If you'll hold on a minute, I'll slip up and bring you down some. The grub was the first thing Mabel carried upstairs.”
He went up and came back with a basket in which he had put a pound of bacon, a loaf and a dozen eggs. “There you are and welcome, Mr. Fosdyke,” he said. “You'll be able to have a bit of breakfast anyhow. Don't worry about settling now. You can see Mabel next time you come in.” As George left the Rolling-Pin a lorry with a man and woman sitting beside the driver, passed along the road in the direction of Owlsworth. The passengers were Mr. and Mrs. Weedon, and the driver was Mr. Yardon, Mrs. Weedon's sister's husband.
The Weedons had gone to the social, where they had found both Mrs. Yardon and her husband. As soon as they had explained the situation in which they found themselves, they received an immediate offer of hospitality. “You can't get to the Hall now, that's a sure thing,” said Yardon. “And it's no good your stopping up all night waiting for the water to go down. Just you stay with us until the morning. I've got to be in Owlsworth by nine o'clock to fetch a load of coal from the station. I shall pass the Hall, and you can come with me on my lorry.” It should be explained that Yardon was the local coal merchant. He collected his coal from Owlsworth station and delivered it in sacks throughout the neighbourhood. His suggestion was discussed. Mrs. Weedon felt that they ought to get back to the Hall as soon as ever the road was passable. But her husband said that was talking silly. What good would it do anybody if they arrived at midnight, or possibly even later?
Mrs. Weedon contended that Mr. Carswell would expect his cup of tea, which her husband always brought him at half-past seven. He'd be terribly upset if he didn't get it. But her husband brushed this argument aside. Chris was there, and what was he for if not to make himself useful? There would be no question of having to get Mr. Carswell's breakfast. He would be sure to be going to London by the nine-five, and he always had his breakfast on the train.
Mrs. Weedon allowed herself to be persuaded. She and her husband spent the night with the Yardons, and left in the lorry about half-past eight on Tuesday morning. Yardon dropped them at the entrance gate of the Hall and went on his way. The first thing the Weedons noticed was that the gate was shut. “That's queer,” Mrs. Weedon remarked. “When Chris drives Mr. Carswell to Owlsworth he always leaves the gate open till he comes back. Perhaps they haven't started yet.”
Her husband looked at his watch. “They're running it pretty fine if they haven't,” he replied. “It's five to nine now. More likely Mr. Carswell isn't going to London after all, seeing it's the day after the holiday. Never mind. There'll be plenty of time to get him his breakfast by half-past.” They hurried up the drive and round the house to the back door. This was unlocked, and they went in, expecting to find Chris in the kitchen. But Chris was not to be found and there was no evidence of his having made Mr. Carswell a cup of tea. “Can't understand it,” said Weedon. “Perhaps he's gone to London after all. I'll go round to the garage and see if the car's there.” He came back shaking his head. “The car's there all right, but Chris isn't about. And where's Mr. Carswell? Not waiting all this time for his cup of tea, surely? I'll go up to his room and see what he's about.” He went upstairs to Mr. Carswell's bedroom and knocked on the door. Receiving no reply, he opened it cautiously and peeped in. Mr. Carswell was not there. And what astonished Weedon more than anything was that the bed had not been slept in.
Weedon felt that something must be very much amiss. Mr. Carswell never walked a step farther than he could help, and if he had gone out for the night he would have taken his car. He couldn't have spent the night in his study, surely?
Weedon came slowly downstairs. When Mr. Carswell was in his study he wouldn't be disturbed, unless he wanted something and rang the bell. But the circumstances were so strange that Weedon thought that for once he would be justified in breaking the rule. Timidly he knocked on the study door, but no voice answered him from within. He waited for a minute, then knocked again, louder this time. Still no reply. “Are you there, sir?” he called.
The silence seemed to imply that Mr. Carswell was not there. Nevertheless Weedon opened the door and looked in. The heavy curtains were drawn across the windows, and the room was in almost complete darkness. Weedon put out his hand and turned on the switch just inside the doorway. Mr. Carswell was there. He was lying huddled up on the carpet. And the briefest inspection was sufficient to show Weedon that he was dead.
WEEDON WAS NOT a man to panic when faced with such a situation. He shut the study door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he went to the telephone which, since the premises had not been affected by the flood, was in order. He rang up Constable Knipe, who fortunately was at home. “This is Weedon, the butler at the Hall speaking. I've just found Mr. Carswell lying dead on his study floor.” “Dead?” Knipe exclaimed. “What do you mean? Has he had a heart attack or something?”
“I don't think that's it, Mr. Knipe,” Weedon replied. “I think you'd best come and see. And perhaps you'd be good enough to tell Dr. Tudwick. He should be at the surgery by now.” Dr. Tudwick lived in Owlsworth but for the convenience of his outlying patients he had a surgery in Brensford Green at which he attended from nine to eleven on Tuesday and Friday mornings. Having assured Weedon that he would tell the doctor and 50 then come along, Knipe rang off. Weedon went into the kitchen, to find his wife busy at the electric cooker. “I can't think what's come over Chris!” she exclaimed. “He's let the Aga go out, and I've got to use this dratted thing.”
“You needn't trouble to get any breakfast for Mr. Carswell,” Weedon replied sombrely. “He's dead. He's lying on the floor in the study, and from the look of him he didn't die naturally.”
The frying-pan she was holding clattered from Mrs. Weedon's hand. “You mean he's been murdered?” she screamed. “Where's Chris?”
“There, there, don't take it like that, Ethel,” her husband replied soothingly. “Maybe it's not so bad as that. Mr. Knipe is coming along, and it won't do for either of us to say too much. I'll go and see if I can find Chris. Maybe he's overslept himself.” He went upstairs again, full of misgivings. Mr. Carswell had always been finding fault with Chris, who had bitterly resented the way he was spoken to. He had often told his father and mother that if things went on like that he would find another job for himself. In his more angry moods he had threatened to do Mr. Carswell a mischief, if he got the chance. Was it possible that Chris had put his threats into execution? It was not likely that there had been anyone in the house but Mr. Carswell and Chris on the previous evening.
Weedon did not trouble to knock on his son's door. He opened it and walked in. Chris was not there, nor had his bed been slept in.
He went downstairs, opened the front door, and stood there waiting, with a heavy heart. Not for long, for within a few minutes a car appeared in the drive. Weedon recognised it as Dr. Tudwick's. The car came to a halt outside the front door, and the doctor and Knipe alighted from it. “Good morning, Weedon,” said Tudwick tersely. “Where is Mr. Carswell?”
“If you'll come this way, sir,” Weedon replied. He led the two men across the hall to the study door. Then he took the key from his pocket and handed it to Knipe. “Nobody's been in there since I found him,” he said. “If I'm wanted, you've only got to ring the bell.” Knipe unlocked the door and he and the doctor entered the room.
The study was a big, airy room, with two windows overlooking an ill-kept lawn at the side of the house. It had an open fireplace, a central mahogany table, and half a dozen armchairs of various sizes. Beside the table was an overturned chair. Close to this lay the body of Mr. Carswell.
While the doctor examined the body, Knipe surveyed the room. He could see at once that it was in a state of some disorder. On the floor between the fireplace and the table was a polished steel poker. This was one of a set, the tongs and shovel being in place on the hearth. The rugs with which the floor was covered were all askew, suggesting shuffling feet. A vase of flowers had fallen from a side table and lay smashed to pieces.
All this Knipe took in at a glance. He went to each window in turn and drew back the curtains. “That's better,” said Tudwick. “Now I can see what I'm about.” Knipe continued looking about him. On the table was a newspaper, which looked as if it had been roughly handled, and a flat metal box. The newspaper was a copy of the Evening Herald of the previous day, and its presence on the table puzzled Knipe. The Evening Herald was published in Ipminster, the county town, fifteen miles from Brensford in the direction opposite to Owlsworth. Bundles of the paper were loaded on to the bus leaving Ipminster at half-past six, and delivered at various points on the route. One bundle was put off at the Rolling-Pin, where a boy was waiting for it. He had a bicycle, and delivered copies from the bundle in Brensford and Plestham.
But on the previous day this arrangement had fallen through. Owing to the flood, the bus had been diverted, and had not passed through Brensford. In any case the boy, who lived in Plestham, could not have got to the Rolling-Pin to meet it. No copies of the paper had been delivered in Brensford. How then had Mr. Carswell got hold of one?
“Come here, Knipe!” Tudwick exclaimed suddenly. “Look for yourself. It doesn't need medical knowledge to see the cause of death. Those bruises round the neck. The unfortunate fellow was strangled. And he certainly didn't strangle himself.”
“You mean that he was murdered, Doctor?” Knipe asked.
“I can't think of any other explanation,” Tudwick replied dryly. “But that's up to you people. And the first question that will be asked is when he was murdered, I'll try to find the answer to that.” As he resumed his examination Knipe, who had noticed the telephone in the hall, went to it. He rang up the police station at Owlsworth and asked to speak to Superintendent Sapcote, who was in charge of the Division. To him he reported the bare fact that Mr. Carswell had been found dead at Brensford Hall, apparently murdered. The reply was that the Superintendent would come along at once, and that Knipe was to stay where he was until he arrived.
Within little more than ten minutes Sapcote reached the Hall, accompanied by a sergeant carrying a finger printing apparatus. Knipe met them at the front door and took them into the study, where Sapcote greeted Tudwick. “So you're on the job, Doctor. What can you tell us?”
“It's an obvious case of strangulation,” Tudwick replied. “The bruises on the neck are perfectly plain, and they seem to have been made by the hands of a man with a powerful grip. The marks of the fingers are in the front of the neck, and those of the thumbs at the back. That means that the strangler was behind his victim.”
“And what time did it happen?” Sapcote asked.
Tudwick smiled. “I was waiting for that. In my opinion death took place between eight and twelve hours ago. It's ten o'clock now. I think it's safe to assume that he was strangled within a couple of hours of midnight, either way.” Sapcote turned to Knipe. “What do you know about this establishment, Constable?” he asked.
“Mr. Carswell was a widower, with no children as far as I know, sir,” Knipe replied. “He lived alone, with a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Weedon and their son to look after him. The Weedons were out yesterday with a coach party. I met the coach when it got back to the Green, and told the passengers they couldn't get any farther because the main road was flooded. The Weedons seemed a bit upset at not being able to get back here.”
“I know all about the flood,” said Sapcote. “I tried to get to Ipminster this way, but had to turn back and go round by the lanes. What time did the main road become passable?”
“It was about midnight when the first traffic got through, sir,” Knipe replied. “The water fell very quickly after that.”
“What about the son you mentioned just now?” Sapcote asked. “Did he go on the coach trip too?”
“I don't think so, sir,” Knipe replied. “He wasn't on the coach when it got back to the Green. All three Weedons live in the house here.”
“I've always understood that Mr. Carswell was not very popular among his neighbours,” said Sapcote. “What have you to say about that, Constable?”
“It's quite right, sir,” Knipe replied. “Nobody in Brensford seemed able to get on with him. I get to hear a good deal of gossip, one way and another. I've heard that even Mr. Fosdyke of Stream House never spoke to him if he could help it. And yet he's some sort of relation.”
“He and Carswell were first cousins,” said Tudwick, who was rearranging his bag. “I know the Fosdykes fairly well, and I got that from them. You won't want me any more now. I must get back to my surgery in Brensford Green. If it will save you any trouble I'll report the matter to the coroner on my return to Owlsworth. He's an old friend of mine.”
“Thank you. Doctor,” Sapcote replied. “It will save me trouble. No, there's no need to keep you here any longer. Your patients will be wondering what's become of you.” Tudwick left the Hall and drove back to Brensford Green. “Who reported this business to you, Constable?” Sapcote asked.
“Weedon rang me up and told me, sir,” Knipe replied. “I went to the doctor's surgery, and he drove me here.”
“I'll see Weedon later on,” said Sapcote. “We were talking about Mr. Carswell. Do you know of any reason why he should have been unpopular?”
“I think his temper had a lot to do with it sir,” Knipe replied. “He wasn't here all the time, because he was in London five days a week. But when he was here he was always picking a quarrel with somebody or other He went for me good and proper last autumn. He said that someone had been in his garden stealing his apples. And he asked me what my job was if not to prevent such things happening. He said that if he missed anything else he would report it to you, sir, and that he'd see to it that I got severely reprimanded. And it was only about three or four weeks ago that I saw him quarrelling with another chap.”
“Tell me about that,” said Sapcote. “Who was this chap?”
“I don't know his name, sir,” Knipe replied. “But I know him by sight well enough. He drives a small car and comes round every few months selling brushes and things like that. He goes from door to door, pestering folk to buy his stuff, and he's so persistent that most of the women buy something from him, if only to get rid of him. But my wife tells me that there's nothing offensive about him.
“Well, sir, one Saturday morning I was on my way to Owlsworth on my bicycle, and when I got as far as this I saw this man's car standing outside the gate. I thought to myself that if he was trying to sell Mr. Carswell something he had struck an unlikely customer. And then as I went by I heard a lot of shouting up the drive, and recognised Mr. Carswell's voice. Thinking there might be some trouble, I walked up the drive till I could see the house.
“The man I'm telling you about, sir, was outside the back door, and Mr. Carswell was bawling at him. I heard him say that he wasn't going to have him trying to palm off his trash on the servants at the Hall. If they wanted anything, they had only to ask him, and he would let them have something good, not rubbish like this man hawked round. You know that Mr. Carswell owned a concern called Reliant Brushes, sir?”
“Yes, I've heard that,” said Sapcote. “What happened next?”
“What I didn't expect, sir,” Knipe replied. “The man always carries a big case with samples in it. Mr. Carswell snatched this from him, opened it and turned it upside down, so that everything in it fell on the ground. He told the man he could pick up his trash and clear out. If he showed his nose inside the gate again he would put the police on his track. Then Mr. Carswell went into the house.
“I went back to the gate and waited by the car till the man came along. I asked him if he'd been having trouble, and he said that he'd been shockingly insulted. He had never called here before, but he thought he might as well try his luck. He had been to the back door, and a lady had opened it. That would have been Mrs. Weedon. He had shown her what he had in his case, and she had said that she would like a pair of hair brushes for her son for Christmas. She chose a pair she fancied, and he had told her that he only carried samples, but that he would bring the pair next time he came round, which would be in November. It was then that a gentleman came along and started swearing at him. Spilt all his samples on the ground, too. He said he wasn't coming here again, even though it meant the loss of the sale of a pair of hair brushes. That was the way Mr. Carswell used to go on, sir.”
“I don't wonder he was unpopular,” Sapcote remarked. “Well, Sergeant, how are you getting on?” All this while the sergeant had been busy with his apparatus. The polished steel poker lying on the floor, the metal box on the table and several other objects in the room had been dusted. At that moment the sergeant was engaged in taking the impressions of the dead man's fingers. “I'm nearly finished, sir,” he replied. “There aren't any prints on the box, but there's a fine set on the poker. I'm taking Mr. Carswell's prints, then I'll compare them.” He finished what he was doing then compared the cards with Carswell's prints on them with those on the poker. “That's clear enough, sir,” he said. “There are only one set of prints on the poker, and they are Mr. Carswell's.”
“Then I think we can reconstruct what happened,” Sapcote replied. “The murderer, whoever he was, came into this room. Mr. Carswell was alone, probably reading that paper lying there. He may or may not have been expecting the visitor. If he was, they possibly began with an amicable conversation. After a while they began to quarrel, not a very difficult matter where Mr. Carswell was concerned, apparently. The visitor turned ugly, and Mr. Carswell picked up the poker to defend himself. However, the visitor dodged round behind him and strangled him. I expect that's about it.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Knipe. “There's something rather queer about that paper.” He explained the impossibility of it having been delivered at the Hall on the previous evening. “It strikes me that somebody must have brought it, probably from Owlsworth, sir.”
“That's a good point. Constable,” Sapcote replied approvingly. “It's possible that the murderer may have brought it. We don't know how long they may have been together before Mr. Carswell was strangled. If the paper was bought in Owlsworth we may be able to trace the man who bought it. Meantime, what's in that box, I wonder? You're quite sure there are no prints on it, Sergeant?”
“Quite sure, sir,” the sergeant replied. “Though it's just the surface to take prints.”
“Then it won't matter if I handle it,” said Sapcote. He picked up the box and examined it with some curiosity. It was made of metal, probably steel, painted with smooth black enamel. It was eight inches long, six and a half wide and four deep. The lid was hinged, and was secured by a hasp and a small but stout padlock, which was locked.
“If this box belonged to Mr. Carswell, one must suppose that he had the key,” Sapcote remarked. “Go through his pockets. Sergeant, but don't disturb the body more than you can help.” The sergeant proceeded to do so. He produced a wallet containing a few pound and ten shilling notes, a driving-licence and insurance certificate. A cigarette case, half full, and a lighter. A quantity of small change, and a bunch of half a dozen keys. Finally, from the pockets of the waistcoat, a first class season ticket between Owlsworth and London, and a single small key.
The sergeant laid these things on the table for the superintendent's inspection. “Much what one might expect,” said Sapcote. “But why is that small key loose, and not on the bunch? It looks to me as though it might fit the padlock.” He inserted the key, turned it, and the padlock flew open. “I thought so,” he said. “Now we shall be able to see what's in the box.” He removed the padlock, disengaged the hasp, and raised the lid. The inside of this, he noticed, was inset with rubber, apparently with the purpose of rendering the box airtight. The box was full of something, and on the surface lay a strip of cardboard which almost exactly fitted it.
Sapcote removed this with the point of his knife and uttered an exclamation of astonishment. The box was completely filled with new five pound notes, packed tightly together. “Look at this lot, you two,” he said. “What can have induced Mr. Carswell to draw all this money and put it in a box? What did he mean to do with it?” Neither the sergeant nor Knipe ventured any reply to this question. “Well, one thing's pretty clear,” Sapcote went on. “The motive for his murder wasn't robbery. That is, if the murderer knew what was in the box. And, since it was standing on the table, I expect he did.”
“Perhaps he didn't care about taking fivers, sir,” the sergeant suggested. “He would have been afraid that there might be a record of the numbers.”
“There's something in that,” Sapcote agreed. “But what was the box doing on the table at all? We can't leave it there, so I'll take charge of it for the present. And now I think it's time we interviewed this butler chap. See if you can find him. Constable?”
“He said that if he was wanted we were to ring for him, sir,” Knipe replied.
“Very well,” said Sapcote. “Ring the bell, and we'll see what happens.” Knipe rang, and within half a minute there came a knock on the door. Sapcote called out “Come in!” and Weedon appeared. He had changed into his butler's clothes, and looked the picture of a dignified and respectful servant. “Sit down, Weedon,” said Sapcote. Then, pointing to the box, “Have you ever seen this before?” Weedon looked at the box closely. “Never, sir. But then if Mr. Carswell kept it locked up somewhere I shouldn't have seen it.”
“He did not take you into his confidence regarding his private affairs?” Sapcote asked.
“Not at all, sir,” Weedon replied. “He never spoke of them to me, though I've been with him this ten years and more.”
“When did you last see Mr. Carswell alive?” Sapcote asked.
“Yesterday morning, sir, when I took him his breakfast in the dining-room,” Weedon replied. “He knew that my wife and I were going out for the day, because I had asked him last week. He said we were welcome to go, so long as we were back to get him his dinner at eight o'clock. And so we should have been but for the flood which prevented us getting here.”
“And what about his lunch?” Sapcote asked. “Was Mr. Carswell prepared to get it for himself?”
Weedon looked uncomfortable. “There was no difficulty about that, sir. Mr. Carswell liked a cold lunch. My wife got mat ready before she left. Cold beef, salad and cheese.”
“But you didn't get back to give him his dinner,” said Sapcote. “How do you suppose Mr. Carswell managed about that?”
“He doesn't seem to have had any dinner, sir,” Weedon replied. “My wife had got it all ready, so that when she came back she could serve it without keeping Mr. Carswell waiting. A piece of salmon, some cutlets and a Bakewell tart. She put it all into the larder, and it's still there.”
“Was Mr. Carswell expecting a visitor yesterday evening?” Sapcote asked.
“He used to have visitors at the weekend sometimes, sir,” Weedon replied. “But he didn't say anything to me about expecting one yesterday.”
“Was Mr. Carswell alone in the house yesterday after you and your wife left him?” Sapcote asked.
Weedon hesitated. “Well, no, sir, not exactly alone. My son Chris was here. He must have taken Mr. Carswell his lunch and cleared away, because the dirty plates are in the scullery now.”
“And yet apparently your son did not take Mr. Carswell his dinner,” Sapcote remarked. “How do you explain that?”
“I don't think Chris would have known how to cook it, sir,” Weedon replied. “He has never done any cooking. His mother always does that.”
“So Mr. Carswell had to go without his dinner?” Sapcote suggested.
“I don't think he would have done that, sir,” Weedon replied. “I expect he went to dinner at the Black Swan in Owlsworth. He sometimes used to when he was alone.”
“We can find out if he did,” said Sapcote. “Tell me this, Weedon. Were the three of you, yourself, your wife and your son, happy in Mr. Carswell's service?”
“We had nothing to complain of, sir,” Weedon replied. “Some people weren't able to get on with Mr. Carswell, but we seemed able to manage.”
“I'm glad to hear that,” said Sapcote. “Where is your son now? I want to see him.”
“I think Mr. Carswell must have sent him away somewhere,” Weedon replied hesitatingly. “I've been looking for him, but he doesn't seem to be about.”
“Sent him away?” Sapcote asked. “Where would Mr. Carswell have sent him to and why?”
“That I can't say, sir,” Weedon replied. “Mr. Carswell used to send him on errands now and again.”
“I understand that Mr. Carswell's relations live in the village,” said Sapcote. “Do you know anything about them?”
“Yes, sir,” Weedon replied. “Mr. and Mrs. Fosdyke, who live at Stream House. Mr. Fosdyke is Mr. Carswell's first cousin, I believe. But they never came here, and I don't think Mr. Carswell ever went to see them.”
“Had Mr. Carswell any other relations?” Sapcote asked.
“That I couldn't say, sir,” Weedon replied. “I've never heard him speak of any.”
“Very well,” said Sapcote, “That will do for the present, Weedon.” Weedon left the room, and Sapcote turned to the sergeant. “It strikes me that young Chris is the man we want. If he wasn't the murderer himself, he should know who was. Another question is, did Mr. Carswell leave the house yesterday evening, and if so at what time did he get back? I'll drive you and your gear back to Owlsworth, and you can make enquiries at the Black Swan. You stop here. Constable, and see that nobody interferes with anything in this room.”
Having driven the sergeant to Owls-worth, Sapcote turned round and followed the main road to Ipminster. A mile beyond the town was the County Police Headquarters, and this was his destination. There he reported to the Chief Constable the death of Mr. Carswell, and the steps he had taken in consequence. “It's a clear case of murder, sir,” he concluded. “And there's precious little to go upon. The only man who is likely to know anything about it has cleared out, and there's no telling where he may have gone to. And this box full of notes. I don't know what to make of that.”
It seemed to the Chief that Sapcote was taking a rather defeatist view of the matter. The murder of a man in Mr. Carswell's position was a little way outside his experience. “Didn't you tell me that Mr. Carswell had a business in London?” the Chief asked.
“Yes, sir,” Sapcote replied. “He used to go to London five days a week. He owned a brush factory, or something of the kind.”
“Then wouldn't it be a good idea to have enquiries made in London?” the Chief suggested. “I'm not trying to interfere in any way with your investigations. But if you think the Yard could help you, I've only got to ring them up and they'll send a man down.”
Sapcote brightened up at this. If the Yard were to be called in, the burden of responsibility would be lifted from his shoulders. But he did not want to appear too eager. “It's as you say, sir,” he replied.
“I think it would be a good move,” said the Chief. “I'll ring up the Yard at once. If they agree to send a man down, as I'm sure they will, I'll ask them to tell him to report to you at Owlsworth. And if there's any more that I can do to help you, you've only got to let me know.”
AS THE CHIEF CONSTABLE had anticipated, Scotland Yard proved immediately cooperative. The Assistant Commissioner assigned Inspector Arnold to the case, instructing him to take the first train to Owlsworth and to establish contact with Superintendent Sapcote at the police station there.
It was soon after half-past two when Arnold was ushered into Sapcote's presence. “I'm very glad to meet you, Mr. Arnold,” said Sapcote as they shook hands. “I had a telephone message that you were coming, so I waited here for you. Sit down, and I'll tell you what the trouble's about.” He gave Arnold an account of what he knew of the case. “It seems to me rather significant that Mr. Carswell was generally unpopular,” he went on. “Even his first cousin, who lives half a mile from Brensford Hall, seems to have avoided him. His butler says that he and his family got on with him, but I'm rather inclined to doubt that statement. Mr. Carswell is known to have been of a quarrelsome disposition. I think you'll agree when you've seen the room, that he had a violent quarrel with someone yesterday evening. And he seems to have got the worst of it.”
“The fingerprints on the poker are Mr. Carswell's?” Arnold asked. “If he was laying about him with it, the murderer might plead that he strangled him in self-defence.”
“There's no doubt about the fingerprints,” Sapcote replied. “You shall see them for yourself. And the sergeant couldn't find any other fingerprints in the room. And there's that box full of fivers. Where does that come in?”
“I'd like to see it, if you've got it here,” said Arnold.
After showing it to the Chief, Sapcote had brought the box back with him. He opened the safe which stood in his room and produced it. Then he took out the key, unlocked the padlock, and opened the lid. “There you are. I haven't counted the notes, but there must be at least five hundred of them. Why did Mr. Carswell keep so much money on the premises? And there's another thing which strikes me. Mr. Carswell can't have been in the habit of opening and shutting the box regularly. If he had, he'd have carried the key on his bunch with the others. But he didn't. The key of the box was found by itself in his waistcoat pocket.”
Arnold took out one of the notes and turned it over in his fingers. Then he produced his pocket lens and through it examined the note minutely. “Do you know, I have my doubts about this note,” he said after a while. “I don't profess to be an expert in such matters, and I may be mistaken. But we know at the Yard that forged fivers have been in circulation lately, though so far we have no clue as to where they come from.”
“What's that?” Sapcote exclaimed. “You don't suspect Mr. Carswell of having been a forger do you?”
Arnold smiled. “I'm always ready to suspect anybody. However, as I say, I may be mistaken. Perhaps these notes are genuine, after all. I should like to take one to the Bank of England and get an opinion upon it.”
“You're welcome to do that,” said Sapcote. “Now, before I take you to Brensford Hall there's somebody you'd like to see. The manager of the Black Swan in the Market Place. He'll be able to tell you something about Mr. Carswell. I'll ring him up and ask him to come over.” He put the call through, and in a few minutes the manager appeared. Sapcote introduced him to Arnold and asked him to sit down. “Would you mind repeating to Mr. Arnold what you told the sergeant this morning?” he said.
“I'll do so willingly,” the manager replied. “I have known Mr. Carswell for some time, because he dines at the hotel occasionally, usually on a Saturday or Sunday.
“Yesterday afternoon, about five o'clock he rang me up and asked me to reserve a table for him for dinner. Being Bank Holiday we were fairly busy, but I knew I could squeeze Mr. Carswell in somehow. I told him that if he could make it convenient to be at the hotel at half-past seven, a table would be ready for him.
“I happened to be in the yard about that time, and saw Mr. Carswell's car drive in. He wasn't driving it himself, but it was being driven by a young man whom I remembered having seen before. Mr. Carswell got out of the car and said something to the young man. I didn't hear what it was.
“I told Mr. Carswell that his table was ready for him, and we walked into the hotel together. We always have a few copies of the Evening Herald on a table in the hall in case any of our customers should want one. Mr. Carswell picked up one of these and laid the money on the table. Then he went in to dinner.
“It was about nine o'clock when he came out of the dining-room, and I noticed that he had his copy of the Evening Herald under his arm. I asked him if he had enjoyed his dinner, and he replied that it wasn't any worse than he had expected. I followed him out into the yard, where his car was still standing, but the young man was nowhere to be seen.
“Mr. Carswell was furious. He said that he had told the young scamp to be waiting for him from half-past eight. He certainly wasn't going to hang about waiting for him. He would drive himself home, and the rascal would have to walk. Serve him right. Mr. Carswell drove off, and that was the last I saw of him.”
“Did the young man come back to the hotel?” Arnold asked.
“Not to my knowledge,” the manager replied. “If he did, he would have gone into the yard and seen that the car wasn't there. The last bus had gone, and unless he could thumb a lift, he would have to walk to Brensford Hall.”
“You say that you remembered having seen the young man before,” said Arnold. “Can you tell us when and where?”
“I had seen him driving Mr. Carswell's car,” the manager replied. “On the previous occasions when Mr. Carswell came to the hotel for dinner, the young man was always driving him.”
Arnold thanked the manager, and Sapcote showed him from the room. “There's no doubt the young man was Chris Weedon,” said Arnold when Sapcote came back. “The first question is, why did he disobey his orders? He had been told to stand by the car from half-past eight onwards. The second question is, what has become of him?”
“I expect that when Mr. Carswell had gone into the Black Swan, Chris wandered off on his own,” Sapcote replied. “He may have met some friends and lost count of the time. When he did get back to the Black Swan, Mr. Carswell had driven himself away. What has become of him I can't tell you, except that he hasn't gone back to Brensford Hall. I told the constable that if Chris returned, he was to ring up at once, and he hasn't done so.”
“Do you think it likely that he went straight back to the Hall without waiting for Mr. Carswell?” Arnold asked. “You see the idea. He knew that Mr. Carswell was quite capable of driving himself home, and that he almost certainly would. My suggestion is that Chris did go back to the Hall, and lay in wait for Mr. Carswell in the study. How does that appeal to you?”
“It's quite possible,” Sapcote replied. “The last bus from here to Ipminster leaves at eight o'clock. Normally it passes the gate of the Hall, but yesterday it was diverted, because the main road through Brensford Street was flooded. The nearest point on the diversion route would be about a mile from the Hall, If Chris travelled by that bus and got off at the nearest point, he could have reached the Hall well before nine.”
“Before Mr. Carswell could have got there,” said Arnold. “Something of this kind may have happened. Chris waited for Mr. Carswell's return. When he had gone into the study, Chris followed him there. Seeing him come in Mr. Carswell, who was already infuriated, picked up the poker and threatened him with it. Chris, a younger and presumably more active man, dodged behind him and strangled him.”
“After which he took to his heels and bolted,” Sapcote replied. “He couldn't have got through the flood, so he must have doubled back in this direction. But how are we going to get a reliable description of him? I wouldn't trust his parents for that.”
“'I expect he's well known in the village,” said Arnold. “But that's only one theory, and it doesn't take into account the box of fivers. I rather fancy that Mr. Carswell was expecting a visitor later in the evening, and that was why he had the box handy. If that's the case, it may have been the visitor who strangled him.”
“Where was Chris when that happened?” Sapcote asked. “It seems to me that if he wasn't the murderer his behaviour is unaccountable. Well, we'd better get along to the Hall, where you can see things for yourself.”
When they reached the Hall they rang the bell and Weedon opened the door. “Have you any news of your son yet, Weedon?” Sapcote asked.
“No, sir, I haven't,” Weedon replied. “We're beginning to wonder if anything can have happened to him. My wife has got it into her head that he may have been drowned in the flood.”
“I don't think that's very likely,” said Sapcote. “You got back here about nine o'clock this morning, you say. How did you get into the house?”
“The back door was unlocked, sir,” Weedon replied. “I expect Mr. Carswell purposely left it like that so that we could get in. Neither my wife nor I have a key to the front door.”
Arnold saw that the front door was fitted with the usual Yale type lock. “Did you find this door shut and locked when you got back?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Weedon replied. “And my wife and I have been all over the house and everything seems to be in order. With Mr. Carswell being killed, we were afraid burglars might have got in.”
“That will do now, Weedon,” said Sapcote. “We'll ring for you if we want you.” He and Arnold went into the study, where they found Knipe. “Have you anything to report, Constable?” Sapcote asked.
“No, sir,” Knipe replied. “The telephone hasn't rung, and the only people who have been to the house were the milkman and the man who brings the newspapers. They went to the back door.
Meanwhile Arnold was surveying the room, taking notice of the state of disorder it was in. It was quite evident that a struggle of some kind had taken place. Apart from the poker on the floor, things had been knocked over. Beside the fireplace were two big armchairs, and a small table had been drawn up against one of these. On the table was an ash tray in which was the stub of a cigarette. It struck Arnold as rather curious that this should not have been upset.
He turned his attention to the articles which had been found in Mr. Carswell's pockets. He picked up the key ring and tried the keys on it in turn on the lock of the front door. One of them fitted perfectly. Then he opened the case, and compared the cigarettes in it with the stub in the ash tray. There was very little doubt that they were of the same brand.
“I'm trying to picture what happened after Mr. Carswell got back here yesterday evening,” said Arnold. “He drove away from the Black Swan about nine o'clock. The distance from there is about four miles, and we can allow him ten minutes to cover it. He put the car away, and walked back to the house. I expect he let himself in by the front door. He should have been settled in this room by half-past nine at the latest.
“I can't help thinking that he was expecting a visitor, who was coming to see him regarding some business deal. That was why he laid the box of notes on the table. The visitor would presumably have come to the front door and rung the bell. It would have been Chris's duty to admit him.
“Mr. Carswell sat down in that chair with the table beside it. The right-hand side of it is close to the hearth, on which the shovel and tongs are still resting. While sitting in the chair Mr. Carswell, by turning his head slightly to the left, could see anyone entering the room by the door.
“He lighted a cigarette, and, I expect, read the newspaper he had bought at the Black Swan. He smoked one cigarette through and did not apparently light another. We do not know how long he remained there. But after a while, not more than an hour after his return from Owlsworth, I imagine, the door opened and someone entered the room unannounced.
“He was not the visitor Mr. Carswell had been expecting but somebody whose appearance inspired Mr. Carswell to a passion of rage, or perhaps fear. He reached down and grasped the poker in his right hand. Then he sprang up, still holding the paper in his left hand. Which of the men first attacked the other we can't tell. Probably Mr. Carswell made for the intruder with the poker. The fact that he strangled Mr. Carswell rather suggests to me that the other man had no weapon.
“The two of them pranced about the floor, knocking things over, Mr. Carswell trying to get within striking distance, and the other man dodging him. At last the intruder caught Mr. Carswell unawares and managed to get behind him. Then he put his hands round his neck and strangled him.
“The intruder may have been Chris. If he left Owlsworth by the eight o'clock bus, got off at the nearest point to the Hall, and walked the intervening mile he could, as you have pointed out, have got here by nine. But if he was bent on murdering his master, why should he have waited so long before doing so? Surely it would have been more natural for him to have waited outside the house for Mr. Carswell's return. Then, when Mr. Carswell was coming from the garage after putting the car away, he could have ambushed him and strangled him. Again, if Chris had entered the study with murder in his heart, wouldn't he have brought some weapon with him? Another poker, or the hatchet used for chopping up firewood.”
“That's a very convincing reconstruction, Mr. Arnold,” said Sapcote. “If Chris was not the murderer, do you suppose that he was in the house when the crime was committed?”
“I very much doubt it,” Arnold replied. 'I have an idea that for some reason of his own he did not intend to come back here that night, or possibly at all. And that leads to the question of how the intruder got in. If he had gone to the front door and rang the bell, there would have been no Chris to answer it. Sitting in here, Mr. Carswell wouldn't have heard the bell. It's probable that the intruder, who may have known his way about, went to the back door. If the Weedons found it unlocked this morning, it must have been so all night.”
“What makes you say that the intruder may have known his way about?” Sapcote asked.
“Just this,” Arnold replied. “Mr. Carswell was murdered at a time when he was alone in the house, a most unusual circumstance. No one who was coming from a distance could have known that the Weedons had gone for a coach trip yesterday, or that they had been prevented by the flood from returning to the Hall last night. But those facts would be apparent to anyone in the village. An excellent opportunity for anyone who had a grudge against Mr. Carswell. And we are told that he was not popular locally.”
“He was murdered by one of his neighbours?” Sapcote asked. “But what about the visitor you say he was expecting? Where does he come in?”
“Literally speaking, I don't suppose he ever did come in,” Arnold replied. “Since Mr. Carswell went out to dinner, it's obvious that he didn't expect him until fairly late. He may have been delayed by the flood, which would have made him later still. If he arrived here after the murder he might have rung the bell and hammered on the front door till doomsday. I don't suppose it would have occurred to him to go round to the back door and try that. He wouldn't have expected to find it unlocked. In the end he would have given it up in despair, and gone back to wherever he came from. In which case, he doesn't come into the picture.”
“I daresay you're right,” said Sapcote. “Well, you've seen pretty well all there is to be seen here. What would you like to do now?”
“I should like to make the acquaintance of Mr. Carswell's cousin,” Arnold replied. “He lives in the village, you said?” Sapcote nodded. “At Stream House, about half a mile from here. I know Mr. Fosdyke slightly. He's the chairman of the Parish Council, and he comes to see me on parish matters now and again. I'll drive you to Stream House and introduce you. You had better stop here. Constable. Have you had anything to eat, by the way?”
“Yes, thank you, sir,” Knipe replied, “Mr. Weedon brought me some lunch.”
“Perhaps he'll bring you some tea, if you wait long enough. When I get back to Owslworth, I'll send a man out to relieve you. Now, Mr. Arnold, I'm ready if you are.” They drove down the slope as far as the Rolling-Pin, then turned right into the Plestham road. Outside the back door of Stream House was a scene of great activity. Rugs and various pieces of furniture had been carried out into the sun, and George and Mary, assisted by Harry and Grace, were trying their best to wipe the mud off them. As the police car pulled up George, recognising Sapcote, called out. “Good afternoon. Superintendent. We were flooded out yesterday, and we're doing our best to clean up.”
“Jolly bad luck, Mr. Fosdyke,” Sapcote replied. “Could you spare a few minutes for a word with us?”
“Certainly,” said George. “I'm glad of an excuse to give up these chores for a bit. I won't ask you into the house, for it's practically uninhabitable, but I can offer you chairs on the lawn. I'll open the gate, and you can run your car into the yard.” He opened the gate and when the car had driven in, he led Sapcote and Arnold to half a dozen deck chairs set out on the lawn. “I put them out this morning, and they should be fairly dry by now,” he said. “Sit down and tell me what you've come to see me about.”
“This is Mr. Arnold from Scotland Yard,” Sapcote replied. “We have come to see you about Mr. Carswell. Do you know that he is dead?” George nodded. “My wife heard from the newspaper man this morning that he was. He comes from Owlsworth, and his first delivery in the village is at the Hall. He said that when he got there Mrs. Weedon told him that they wouldn't be wanting any more newspapers, because Mr. Carswell was dead. I couldn't ring up the Hall to verify the fact, because the flood has put our telephone out of order. And I've been far too busy to go there.”
“The newspaper man's information was correct.' said Sapcote. “Mr. Carswell is dead, and there can be no doubt that he was murdered.”
“Murdered?” George loudly exclaimed. “That's a bad business. But I'm not altogether surprised. He contrived to make himself obnoxious to quite a lot of people. Who murdered him?”
“That is what Mr. Arnold and I are trying to find out,” Sapcote replied. “And we're hoping that you may be able to help us.” George shook his head. “Although Donald Carswell was my first cousin, I knew very little about him. Some years ago there was considerable unpleasantness between us, and since then we have barely spoken to each other. I haven't set foot inside the Hall for I don't know how long, and the same applies to my wife. I can't possibly tell you who might have murdered Donald. My word, though, I wonder?”
“What do you wonder, Mr. Fosdyke?” Arnold asked.
“That will take a bit of explaining,” George replied. “We had rather an odd adventure yesterday. Three chaps driving past here were nearly drowned when their car ran into the flood. They came in here like so many shipwrecked mariners seeking dry land. I'll tell you about it.” He described the incident and went on. “The first thing one of them said to me when he got inside the house was that he had a most urgent appointment with Mr. Carswell. It appeared that the party had been bound for the Hall. The man I'm speaking of, whose name was Jerry Newark, was to have been left there, and the other two were to have driven back to London. Newark wanted to know if there was any way of getting to the Hall, by boat if necessary. By that time there was at least six feet of water in the road, and it was rising fast. I told him that he couldn't possibly get there on foot, and that boats were not usually found in an inland village. I didn't like the chap or his manner. It seemed to me that there was something furtive about him. The other two weren't so bad. In fact the youngest, who was the owner of the car, was quite decent.
“Of course, even when the water went down, to attempt to drive the car would have been out of the question. All we could do was to put the three waifs up for the night, and that's what we did. Two of them left by the half-past eight bus this morning. The third, Newark, disappeared in the night.”
“Disappeared?” Arnold asked. “What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Fosdyke?”
“Just what I say,” George replied. “We had to put him and one of the others, Andrew Morstow, into the same room. They gave us to understand that they were brothers-in-law. Early this morning I had occasion to go into the room to replace a fuse, and found only Morstow there. When I asked him where his friend was, he said he didn't know. All he could say was that Newark had been in the room when he went to sleep, which must have been soon after eleven o'clock. And Newark went off in my old clothes that I'd lent him while his own were drying.”
“Do you think it was true that Morstow didn't know where his friend had gone?” Arnold asked.
“I don't think he knew for certain,” George replied. “And he probably didn't see Newark go, I daresay he was sleeping pretty heavily, because he drank quite a lot of my whisky overnight. But he made a guess, which may have been correct. Newark had been worrying all the evening because he couldn't get to the Hall. He might have got up in the night, seen that the water had gone down, and set out.”
“I'm told that the main road by the Rolling-Pin was passable about midnight,” Sapcote remarked.
“Then the Plestham road would have been passable some time before that,” George replied. “It's a couple of feet higher and that would make a lot of difference. In fact, when I looked out before I turned in there were not more than a few inches of water outside the back door. If Newark didn't mind getting his feet wet, he could have made his way to the Hall soon after midnight.”
“He wasn't there at nine o'clock this morning,” said Arnold. “Did Newark tell you where he lived?”
“In London, I gathered,” George replied. “But they none of them gave me their addresses. I can tell you how you might find out. The owner of the car, whose name is Harold Landrake, walked into Plestham before he left here this morning to see Deben about getting his car dried out. He gave Deben his telephone number, and asked him to ring him up when the car was ready. You could probably get on to Landrake that way, and he could give you the addresses of the other two.”
“That's a very good idea, Mr. Fosdyke,” said Arnold. “May I use your telephone?”
“I'm sorry to say that it's still out of order,” George replied. “And it will remain so until the telephone people come and see to it. Hullo, here's the Colonel. And I suppose it's that friend he spoke about that he's got with him.”
Two men had come out from The Elders and were entering the grounds of Stream House by the bridge over the river. Arnold, looking towards them, could hardly believe his eyes. The Colonel's friend was Desmond Merrion, whom he had known intimately for many years. “I hope we're not butting in, Fosdyke,” said Heckley. “We came across to see if you wanted anything. We're fairly straight at home, thanks to the help of Mr. Merrion and his wife. I say, it's a bad business about Carswell. It was very sudden, surely?”
“I gather that it was,” George replied with a side glance at Sapcote. He was by no means sure that he was at liberty to reveal the truth. But Sapcote rose from his chair. “I'll go along to Plestham and get that number out of Deben,” he said. “Are you coming with me, Mr. Arnold?”
“I'd rather stay here until you come back, if you've no objection,” Arnold replied.
“As you please,” said Sapcote. “I don't suppose I shall be very long.” He drove to Deben's garage, where he found five cars drawn up in the yard, with mechanics busy on them. Deben, who was superintending the work looked up as Sapcote drove in. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sapcote,” he said, “We're busy as you see with these cars that got drowned in the flood. Three from Stream House and two from The Elders. And a pretty pickle they're in, I can promise you that.”
“It's the owner of one of the cars I want to ask you about,” Sapcote replied. “His name is Landrake, and he was here early this morning, I understand.”
“That's right,” said Deben. “He told me he couldn't wait till his car was ready, and that he was going back to London. He gave me a number and asked me to ring him up and he'd come and fetch it.”
“Can you give me the number?” Sapcote asked.
“If you'll step into the office I can,” Deben replied. “I've got a note of it there.” They went to the office, where Deben looked up the number. Sapcote made a note of it. “May I use your telephone?” he asked. “I'll pay for the call, of course.”
“You're welcome,” said Deben. “You'll excuse me if I leave you to it? I want to keep my eye on those chaps and see they do the job properly.” Sapcote asked for the number, and after a while heard an answering voice. “Dormouse Club, Bayswater.”
“Is Mr. Harold Landrake in?” Sapcote asked.
“Not just now,” the voice replied. “I can take a message for him.”
“Thank you,” said Sapcote. “Will you ask him, as soon as he comes in, to ring Owlsworth 1331? I'll repeat that. Owlsworth 1331. And will you please tell Mr. Landrake that it's a matter of the first importance.” 96
As SAPCOTE LEFT the lawn, Heckley introduced Merrion to George. “I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Fosdyke,” said Merrion as they shook hands. “Arnold and I require no introduction. We've known each other for more years than either of us care to remember, I daresay. But I hardly expected to meet him here.”
“Nor did I expect to meet you,” Arnold replied. “How long have you been staying with Colonel Heckley?”
“Since yesterday,” said Merrion. “The Colonel invited Mavis and me to spend the day. But we got caught in the flood, and the Colonel has very kindly invited us to stay at The Elders until the car is fit to drive again.”
“I don't know what Laura and I should have done without them,” Heckley remarked. “They've been working like niggers all day, helping us to get things straight. Oh, by the way, Fosdyke, many thanks for passing the word to Deben. His chaps came and towed away the two cars, Merrion's and mine, this morning.”
“And thank you. Colonel, for coming across,” George replied. “I think we've got all we want, and we have two able helpers.”
“Then I'll get back,” said Heckley. “It's time to feed the pigs. I daresay, Merrion, you'd like to stop here for a chat with your old friend.” He went back across the bridge, and George excused himself on the plea of helping with the furniture. “And just exactly what are you doing here?” Arnold asked when he and Merrion were left alone.
“What am I doing?” Merrion replied. “Lifting pigs up into a loft and lifting them down again. You've no idea how awkward a pig can be, even with a man at either end of it. As you heard the Colonel say. Mavis and I came over only for the day. But the car got stuck in the flood, so we've become immobile. And may I ask in turn what you're doing here?”
“You've heard about Mr. Carswell of Brensford Hall?” Arnold asked.
“I've heard quite a lot about him,” Merrion replied. “But it wasn't until this morning that I heard that he was dead. Is that what brings you here?”
“He was murdered, and I've been put on the case,” said Arnold. “What have you heard about him?”
“Nothing to his credit,” Merrion replied. “I'll explain. Before he retired, the Colonel was in charge of a branch of Intelligence, and he and I frequently came into contact during the war. We have kept in touch since and I have run over here now and then to see him. It's only fifty miles or so from High Eldersham.
“Yesterday Mavis and I came over to meet two men whom the Colonel had also invited for the day. I was slightly acquainted with both of them, for they had worked with the Colonel in the old days. Their names are Major Quarrington and Captain Rodden, of the Navy. They are now both retired.
“The Colonel's car was put out of action, as mine was. In any case, no one could have got through the flood yesterday afternoon. So all four of the Colonel's guests were marooned. He and his wife did wonders. They fed us, on two of their fowls slaughtered for the purpose, and put us up. Mavis and I in one spare room and the two men in the other.
“We all spent most of the afternoon hoisting pigs and trying to catch poultry. Then we retired to an upper room of the house, the ground floor being under water. By an act of providence the Heckleys had a small emergency electric oven, and this had been rescued and taken upstairs before it was overtaken by the flood. Mrs. Heckley cooked the fowls in it, and we had a most satisfactory meal.
“Mrs. Heckley and Mavis went to bed early, leaving us four men to gossip about old times. Carswell's name came up somehow. I think the Colonel remarked that he had nothing to worry about, as Brensford Hall stood far above any level that the flood was likely to reach. Quarrington pricked up his ears at that, and asked the Colonel if the man he was speaking was Donald Carswell, who owned a brush factory in the East End of London. When the Colonel replied that he was, Quarrington asked us if we didn't remember him.
“I remembered the name vaguely, but Rodden's memory was better than mine. It seems that during the war, he and Quarrington were working together on counter-espionage, and they had formed strong suspicions of Carswell. He had an agency in Dublin, ostensibly for the sale of his wares. But they had reason to believe that the agency was a fake, and that it was really a centre from which information was transmitted to the enemy. However, they had never been able to prove it, and Carswell had remained unscathed. But, apparently, far from forgotten.
“The Colonel told something of what he knew of Carswell as a neighbour. He said that he and Mr. Fosdyke were cousins, but that he had never known them speak to each other. He fancied that there must be some old feud, which had never been healed. He wasn't surprised that Fosdyke would have nothing to do with Carswell, who was quite impossible. The Colonel said that he had been insulted once, and that the insult still rankled.”
“Did he tell you how that had come about?” Arnold asked.
“He did, with some emphasis,” Merrion replied. “It seems that he went to Brensford Hall one evening, to ask Carswell for a subscription towards repairs to the parish hall. He was taken to Carswell's study. Without inviting him to sit down, Carswell asked him brusquely what he wanted. The Colonel explained, and Carswell turned on him. He was surprised that a man in his position should come round begging for money. But then he supposed that a Colonel who had descended to wallowing in pigsties must have lost all sense of the fitness of things. As for the parish hall, he had never been there, never intended to, and didn't care a damn if the place fell to pieces. The Colonel told him that he was not accustomed to be spoken to in such a manner. All Carswell did was to ring the bell for his butler and tell him to show the Colonel out.
“The Colonel got rather carried away by his indignation. In his opinion the brush business was only a cover for something far more sinister. Queer people were in the habit of coming to the Hall during weekends. He had seen some of them, and didn't like the look of them. He had heard, he didn't say where, that though there were at least a dozen of these visitors, their names were always Smith or Brown, It was quite obvious that neither they nor Carswell wished their true names to be known. They must either be crooks or agents of some foreign power. Carswell had been suspected, probably with good reason, of having been engaged in espionage during the war. It was quite possible that he was now engaged in transmitting information to certain persons behind the Iron Curtain.
“That set the Colonel's two friends off again like a pair of greyhounds after a hare. Whether, although retired, they still dabble in Intelligence work I don't know. One doesn't ask that sort of question, but I expect they probably do. At all events they said that immediate action ought to be taken. We should all four go in a body to the Hall and get the truth out of Carswell. With our combined experience we should know how to tackle him.”
“And did you go?” Arnold asked. “You weren't here yesterday evening,” Merrion replied. “And it's very difficult to make anyone who didn't see the flood understand how completely isolated our party was from the outside world. As far as communicating with anybody went, we might just as well have been locked up in a prison cell. We were sitting in an upper room, actually the spare room in which the two friends were to sleep. There were at least six feet of water round the house, the cars were in it up to the roof, and the telephone was drowned. We couldn't get out, and nobody could come near us.”
“I'm told that the water had practically gone by midnight,” Arnold remarked.
“I daresay it had,” Merrion replied. “But by midnight we had all gone to bed. We had had a strenuous day, you must remember. I didn't go outside until this morning. Whether any of the others made a nocturnal expedition to Brensford Hall I can't say, but I don't think it's very likely. Quarrington and Rodden left by the half-past eight bus. There was no further mention of Carswell until the Colonel and I heard that he was dead. The news was brought by the man who delivers the newspapers, I believe.”
“There seem to have been quite a lot of Carswell's acquaintances in the village last night,” said Arnold. “Mr. Fosdyke had three strangers thrust upon him, and it was far from being a case of entertaining angels unaware. One of them, who gave his name as Jerry Newark, was desperately anxious to get to Brensford Hall. And he certainly isn't angelic. Jerry Newark is a name that frequently crops up in our investigations. We've never yet been able to track him down, but there's no doubt that if he's not a crook himself, he associates with crooks. And he disappeared from this house in the course of last night.”
“He managed to get to Brensford Hall, one supposes,” Merrion replied. “It's interesting that a man who associates with crooks should be an acquaintance of Carswell's. I wonder if he was one of the suspicious characters the Colonel saw about the place?”
At that moment Sapcote's car drew up outside the gate. “I shall have to get along now,” said Arnold. “We shall meet again soon, I don't doubt.” He went round to the back door, where he found the party still busy, and drew George aside. “Just one more question, Mr. Fosdyke,” he said. “You told us, I think, that Newark went off in the clothes you had lent him. Can you describe them?”
“I expect my wife can,” George replied. “She looked them out for him. Just a minute-Mary!”
Mary joined them, and Arnold repeated his question. “Yes, I can tell you what they were,” she replied. “A pair of old flannel trousers which George wears when he takes it into his head to do a bit of gardening. I noticed that they had a hole in the right knee. And a ridiculous brown Norfolk jacket, which George hasn't worn for years. I don't know why it hadn't been sent to a rummage sale long ago.” Arnold thanked her and joined Sapcote in the car. “I got the number from Deben and rang it,” said Sapcote. “I was told it was the Dormouse Club in Bayswater, and that Landrake was not in. Do you know anything about the place?”
“I've heard of it, but I've never been there,” Arnold replied. “It's a residential club for men only. I believe it's called the Dormouse because its members sleep there. Perfectly respectable, so far as I know.”
“I left a message for Landrake,” said Sapcote. “I gave the number of Owlsworth police station and asked him to ring up as soon as he got back to the club. I didn't give my name or say what the number was. Landrake is sure to suppose that it has something to do with his car. I don't doubt that he'll ring up.”
“If he doesn't, we know what to do,” Arnold replied. “I'll get on to the Yard and send someone round to the club to chase him. Meanwhile my friend Merrion has been telling me some rather interesting things. But they can wait till we get back to Owlsworth.”
“We may as well call at the Hall on our way,” said Sapcote. They drove off and pulled up at the Hall entrance. Weedon admitted them, and they went into the study. Knipe sprang to his feet. “I have something to report, sir.”
“Carry on. Constable,” Sapcote replied. “Has anyone called here?”
“No, sir,” said Knipe. “But half an hour ago the telephone rang, I didn't go to answer it, for I thought you'd rather the caller shouldn't know the police were in the house, sir. So I waited till Weedon came along and took the call. He said he was Mr. Carswell's butler, and asked who was speaking. Then he listened for a bit, not very long, and looked very much relieved. After that he began asking questions, but he didn't seem to get any answer. And when he put the telephone down I asked him who he had been speaking to. And he told me it was his son Chris. I didn't question him any further, sir, because I thought you would rather do that.”
“You acted quite correctly. Constable,” said Sapcote. “Ring the bell.” Knipe rang and within a couple of minutes Weedon appeared. “I understand that you have had a message from your son, Weedon,” said Sapcote. “Where is he?”
“He rang up from Ipminster, sir,” Weedon replied. “He said that his mother and I were not to worry about him, because he was quite all right. He had found a job, and was going to start work next Monday. He said he would come here by bus tomorrow, after Mr. Carswell had gone to London, and fetch his things.”
“Did you ask him where he was staying?” Sapcote asked.
“I didn't have a chance to ask him anything, sir,” Weedon replied. “As soon as he had told me what he wanted, he rang off.”
“Very well, Weedon,” said Sapcote. “You may leave us now.” Weedon went out and Sapcote turned to Arnold. “What are we going to do about that? Wait on the chance of Chris turning up, or get the Ipminster police to comb the town for him?”
“I should be inclined to wait,” Arnold replied. “I don't think he'd have told his father he was coming if he didn't mean to come. There wouldn't have been any point in it. I