Fall of a Philanderer Read online

  Dabbing at her eyes, Mrs. Enderby turned away with a forlorn little sniff. “You want me to sign something, Mr. Fletcher? Saying it’s him?”

  “If you please.” He opened the door and held it as she passed, high heels clicking on the flagstones. “It might enable you to avoid giving evidence of identity at the inquest, though I can’t promise. Mind the clothes-line. You’ll have to attend anyway, in case the coroner wants to speak to you. I’ve a number of questions to put to you, but I won’t trouble you tonight. What would be a good time for me to call in the morning?”

  The business-woman was back in control. “Breakfast eight to nine, there’s always a few lazy buggers come down at the last minute so call it ha’ past. Opening’s half eleven. Come round about ten, all right?”

  A few minutes later Alec was at last alone in the police station. His knapsack was under the table. Taking out the camera, he hesitated over the wax paper-wrapped picnic tea. If he started to eat, Mrs. Puckle was bound to come in with the promised pie and she might be offended to find him guzzling Mrs. Anstruther’s provisions. He couldn’t afford to have the Puckles upset with him. The constable might not be the brightest star in the firmament but at least he was willing.

  Stomach rumbling, Alec sat down at the table with a pile of blank paper and the wooden pen with the scratchy steel nib that had given Vernon such trouble. As he started to put his thoughts in order, Mrs. Puckle brought him a huge helping of slightly dried-out fish pie topped with crisped mashed potato, accompanied by a generous heap of buttered green beans, and a pint mug of tea.

  “Bless you!” said Alec.

  13

  Daisy kissed the girls good night, turned out their light, and went back downstairs. Baskin had his two-inch Ordnance Survey map spread out again.

  “I thought I’d show you where I went today, Mrs. Fletcher.” He turned up a couple of lamps. “You’ll see that if you let the girls go up the stream with me, I shan’t take them very far. As the crow flies, it’s about a mile and a quarter to the head-spring. The stream winds around a bit, of course, and as I said, it’s quite a scramble in places, so we might not get so far.”

  Studying the map, Daisy said, “It looks to me as if I could walk that way by these lanes. And there are three bridges upstream where I could meet you to see how much farther you intend to go.”

  Baskin grinned. “The lanes are farm tracks and two of the bridges are water-splashes, but that sounds like a good idea.”

  “Where did you go today after you reached the source of the stream?”

  “By farm tracks and footpaths, this way to the mouth of this river.” With a propelling pencil as pointer, he indicated his route across the peninsula. “The River Avon, you see, one of many such. Did you know Avon, or Afon, is the Celtic word for river?”

  “No, is it?”

  “Sorry! The schoolmaster escapes my control now and then. I got there in time to have a pint with my lunch, at the Ferries Inn, then took the ferry across and back, just because I like ferries. Then back along the coast.”

  “Gosh, that’s quite a walk!” Daisy didn’t see how he could possibly have reached the cliff-top in time to push Enderby off before she and Alec and the girls arrived on the scene.

  “Farther than it looks, actually. Not infrequently one starts along what looks like a well-trodden footpath, only to have it fade out. Or a farmer who dislikes hikers will plough over what should be a public right-of-way. As a matter of fact, I’m a member of the Commons and Footpaths Preservation Society, and I shall report to them. Then, there’s a marshy bit that didn’t help, down here by this stream I had to cross. I did quite a bit of backtracking.”

  Mrs. Anstruther brought in coffee. She leant over the table, saying, “Do you know, I’ve never seen a map of this district before. At school we had maps of the British Isles and of the world, with the Empire all in red, but nothing of Devon, let alone this bit of it. Would you mind if I called Peter to have a look?”

  “Do,” Daisy said cordially, only too pleased to have a chance to find out where Peter Anstruther had spent his afternoon.

  He came in with two mugs of coffee. “I brought yours, Ceci. It’s getting cold.”

  Taking the cup, she thanked him with a look of love and gratitude. “Have you ever seen a map like this, Peter? Look, here’s Westcombe. And here’s North Sands beach, so this little black square must be our house!”

  “The farthest south in the town—yes, that’ll be it, won’t it, Mr. Baskin?”

  “I imagine so,” said Baskin, smiling.

  “I’m accustomed to sea charts. Though navigation is not my business, the elevation—the height above sea-level, as you might say—of points on the shore often is. But I’ll be damned—”

  “Peter!”

  “Dashed—sorry, Mrs. Fletcher—I’ll be dashed if I can make this out. Too many lines! I know the area like the back of my hand, from roaming about when I was a boy, but this don’t look anything like the lanes and cliffs and fields and trees I know.”

  “Not like the back of your hand.” Baskin resumed the role of teacher. “You see the back of your hand all at once, like the map, whereas you find your way about by means of familiar landmarks viewed individually as you come upon them. But it’s just a matter of learning the conventions.” He explained the contour lines, the various lines for footpaths and different grades of roads, the symbols for cliffs and woods and the marshy area in which he had been bogged down that afternoon.

  Anstruther was fascinated. He pored over the map, pointing out things to Cecily.

  “Where is Sid’s shack, Mr. Baskin?” Daisy asked.

  “Just about here, in a sheltered nook on the south side of Bolberry Down.”

  “There used to be a shepherd’s hut there,” said Anstruther. “A tumbledown stone shelter. You’re talking about Sid Coleman?”

  “I don’t know his last name,” Daisy admitted. “The beachcomber. The girls met him and were rather taken with him. Do you know his history?”

  “His father was a farmer. He died a couple of years ago?” He looked at his wife.

  “Nearer four, I think. He was a very old man. Sid’s about my age, so his parents must have been getting on when he was born.”

  “His mother died when he was born and his father had no use for him. He was a brute. The older son, Alfred, has the farm now, and he’s no improvement on the old man. It’s amazing Sid survived his childhood. He’s a harmless chap. So that’s where he’s living, in the old shepherd’s hut?”

  “He’s made a good, sound cabin of it,” Baskin told him, “patchwork but weatherproof, with a view out to sea.”

  Anstruther laughed. “A view of the sea is no treat to a sailor. I haven’t been up on the cliffs in years.”

  To Daisy, the statement had the ring of truth, and if true, it meant Anstruther had not killed Enderby. Catching Baskin’s eye, she wondered if he was thinking the same. Then she wondered whether he had brought out his map with the aim of getting Anstruther to talk about the cliffs, in hopes of obtaining clues to his guilt or innocence.

  Or perhaps Baskin had been practising the story he meant to tell the police. If so, he was word-perfect and very convincing.

  They all sat down to finish their coffee, and the talk turned to Anstruther’s travels around the world. He and Baskin discovered a mutual acquaintance, an officer on a ship that had evacuated Baskin’s Army unit from Gallipoli in ’16. Anstruther’s ship had taken part in the early naval attacks of the Dardanelles campaign, and they were exchanging reminiscences when someone knocked on the front door.

  Alec! Daisy thought, and Alec as detective chief inspector or he would not have knocked. This was going to be a nasty shock for the Anstruthers. She wouldn’t blame them—well, not much—if they threw her and the girls out into the night.

  Cecily started to get up. Anstruther put his hand on her shoulder and went himself to answer the door. He came back a couple of minutes later and said with resignation, “It’s a police in
spector.”

  Not Alec. Eviction postponed.

  “About last night?” Cecily asked, troubled. “Is he pressing charges?”

  “I don’t know. I was going to take him into the kitchen but he wants to speak to you, too, Baskin. Do you mind coming … ?”

  “That’s all right, sir, this’ll do nicely.” The inspector had followed him to the sitting room. With his black suit and kindly smile, he looked disarmingly like a parson about to pronounce a blessing, Daisy thought. But behind him loomed a uniformed constable with the inevitable notebook.

  Anstruther shrugged and moved aside. He seemed worried enough for someone facing an assault charge which would do his career no good, but not for someone facing suspicion of murder. Of course, he had had plenty of time to prepare himself for questioning. His beard made it difficult to read his expression. Daisy couldn’t guess whether he knew of Enderby’s death or not.

  She glanced at Baskin. His face was grim. He knew the inspector had not sought him out merely as a witness to last night’s assault. Whether he was more concerned for himself or for Anstruther was not apparent.

  “Detective Inspector Mallow, Devonshire Constabulary,” the officer introduced himself genially. He looked around the room, his gaze passing over Daisy as if he didn’t see her. She tried to make herself small and invisible. He went on, “I have a—”

  “It’s all my fault!” cried Cecily Anstruther, jumping up. “Can’t you arrest me instead of my husband?”

  “Balderdash.” Peter went to her and made her sit down, perching himself on the arm of her chair with a hand on her shoulder. “I lost my temper and if the blackguard wants to make trouble, I’ll take my medicine.”

  “I’m not arresting anybody just now, madam,” said Mallow in a soothing voice. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what it is you want to take the blame for?”

  “Why, last night, of course.” Cecily’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “Not exactly. I have a few questions for the gentlemen. Mr. Anstruther, would you mind telling me where you were between two o‘clock and four o’clock this afternoon?”

  “This afternoon!” Cecily exclaimed. She looked up at her husband. “What happened? Peter, you didn’t … ? He was here with me,” she said fiercely to the inspector.

  “I’d like Mr. Anstruther to answer for himself, if you please, madam,” Mallow said, his mildness unimpaired.

  “No, I didn’t go and give him the thrashing he deserves, Ceci. I went to see an old friend, Inspector. He lives over near South Huish.”

  “I’m not familiar with this part of the county, sir. I see you have a map there. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing me where that is.”

  Daisy was dying to go over with the others to the table where the map still lay spread out, but she was afraid of drawing attention to herself in case Mallow asked her to leave. He hadn’t asked who she was, so she assumed he guessed she was Alec’s wife. The poor man must be in quite a quandary over what to do with her.

  “South Huish,” said Baskin, putting his finger on the map. “I walked through the village myself, this morning.”

  “A matter of three or four mile,” the inspector observed. “More by road. You walked there, Mr. Anstruther?”

  “No, I bicycled. Borrowed a bike from a pal in the village. In Westcombe, that is. You can ask him.”

  “We probably will. What time did you leave?”

  “I don’t know. After dinner. Lunch, if you prefer.”

  “About quarter past two,” said Cecily.

  “I borrowed the bicycle in the morning, though.”

  “Which way did you ride?”

  “I didn’t go back into town. I took—let me see—” He puzzled over the map for a minute, keeping his arm around Cecily’s waist. “I’m not too good at reading a map, but it must have been this lane here, to Malborough. Then this lane, it’s not much more’n a farm track. After that, you can see, it gets a bit muddlesome. There are several ways you can get to the village, to South Huish, but I didn’t go there anyway. He doesn’t live actually in the village and I can’t quite make out from the map … .”

  “I see, sir. What time did you get to your friend’s house?”

  “I wasn’t wearing my watch, but it must have been about three.”

  “No doubt your friend can confirm that.”

  “He wasn’t there,” Anstruther admitted.

  “Is that so? A servant?”

  “He has a daily woman from the village, who wasn’t there on a Sunday, of course. At least, he used to. I haven’t seen him since my last leave.”

  “Name and address, please.”

  “Paul Pritchard. Sea View Cottage, South Huish. Don’t go bothering him if you don’t have to, Inspector. He was rather badly shot up at Jutland. What’s this all about, anyway? I’ve told you I didn’t see him today, so I can’t see you need trouble him at all.”

  “That’s not for me to say, sir. Finding your friend out, you came straight home, I take it?”

  “No, as a matter of fact I went up to the old camp.”

  “Camp?”

  “Fort, or whatever you want to call it. It’s Iron Age or Bronze Age or something. We used to go up there when I was a boy, to play Ancient Britons fighting the Roman invasion.”

  “But you wouldn’t be playing soldiers today, sir.”

  “Of course not. I just wanted somewhere quiet to sit and think.”

  “And where exactly is this old fort?”

  Anstruther stared perplexedly at the map. “I couldn’t rightly say.”

  “Here,” said Baskin, pointing. “Where it says ‘Camp.’ I went there the other day to take a look. Nothing left but a few mounds.”

  “No one about to see you, I suppose, Mr. Anstruther?”

  “Not a soul. That’s why I went there.”

  “Pity.” Mallow bent over the map. “Now, Mr. Baskin, I expect you can show me on this whereabouts George Enderby went over the cliff.”

  “What the devil?” Anstruther gasped. “Cecily!”

  Pale as a ghost, Cecily Anstruther drooped against her husband’s shoulder. As he supported her to the sofa, Daisy jumped to her feet.

  “Brandy?” she queried.

  “In the larder. Ceci, whatever he’s talking about, I had nothing to do with it, I swear it.”

  Hurrying to the door, Daisy noted that Inspector Mallow, having dropped his bomb, was watching the Anstruthers with the same benign air with which he had arrived. The Marsh Mallow, she recalled from youthful adventures on the banks of the upper Severn, is a pretty, innocuous-appearing flower that tempts one into the bog.

  She found the brandy and a tumbler. Shock—tea and hot-water bottles, she decided, and she paused to fill the kettle and set it on the hot plate of the big black-iron range before speeding back to the sitting room.

  The inspector was peering at the map, but Daisy could practically see his ears cocked like a dog’s to catch any words uttered by the Anstruthers. Peter knelt on the floor beside his wife, holding her hands. She lay back against a cushion, still horridly pale and limp. Without rising, Peter took the glass Daisy held out, with half an inch of brandy in it.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Fletcher. Ceci, my dear, take a sip. There, that’s better. And a little more,” he urged.

  A faint colour tinged Cecily’s cheeks. “Peter, is he dead?” she whispered.

  “That rather depends on whereabouts he fell, which Baskin seems to know.”

  Baskin came over. “I happened to be passing as the lifeboat was taking off the body—yes, he’s dead. I stopped to watch and met Fletcher when he came up the cliff.”

  “Alec discovered the body,” said Daisy. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it was rather an awkward subject to broach after …”

  “After last night,” said Anstruther sombrely. “I don’t blame you. But I didn’t push him. I wasn’t anywhere near the cliffs.”

  “It looks to me,” said Inspector
Mallow, appearing among them map in hand, “as if this here lane goes within a couple of hundred yards of the cliff path. And even if you was to set out on the other lane, the one you so kindly showed me, Mr. Anstruther, and went all round about this-a-way, on your bicycle, you could easily have reached the cliff-top in plenty of time to meet the deceased.”

  “Dammit, why should I go through all that rigmarole when I had no idea the bast—blackguard would be walking up there?”

  “You might’ve seen him when he passed the house on his way, now, mightn’t you?”

  “That’s quite a hill, Inspector,” Baskin put in, looking at the map over the inspector’s shoulder. “Here, the way you’re suggesting Anstruther went round, I mean. Unless the bike he borrowed has excellent gears, he’d be pushing it up.”

  “No gears.”

  “Is that so? Well, you’d better give me the name of the chap you borrowed it from. No doubt the chief inspector will be wanting to go into all that.”

  “You’re not in charge of the case?” asked Baskin.

  “Not me. We’ve got a detective chief inspector from Scotland Yard right here on the spot and I can tell you, it’s a proper treat seeing how he works, that’s what it is.” As he spoke, Mallow was looking at Daisy with a gentle, ironic smile.

  At least, she now saw irony in it where before she had seen only kindliness. He wasn’t leaving her much choice: If she didn’t confess to Baskin and the Anstruthers now, they would have every right to be furious when they found out. “Alec’s a Scotland Yard man,” she revealed. “There was no reason to mention it before, and I didn’t know he’d been put in charge till just now. Oh, is that the kettle whistling? I was going to make tea. It’s supposed to be good for shock.”

  As she fled, she heard Mallow say, “Well, now, Mr. Baskin, would you be so good as to show me on this here map just where you went this afternoon?”

  In the slate-shelved larder, Daisy found a canister of tea. As she turned back to the kitchen, Cecily Anstruther entered from the hall. Still pale and a bit shaky, she sat down at the table.

  “I’m sorry,” said Daisy, busying herself with the teapot so that she didn’t have to meet Cecily’s eyes. “Do you want us to leave?”