All Fall Down

CHAPTER TWO

Gilkison stood at the door of the compartment, clicking his tongue with nervous exasperation. The hand of the big clock was close on the quarter.

“No. I’m sorry. Both these seats are taken.”

The burdened soldier looked sulkily at him, and shuffled on. A woman in the compartment made an audible remark. Gilkison’s ears reddened. He tapped his foot, and looked down the platform in despair.

Suddenly the crowd parted, and the well-known figure came charging along. Ellis caught sight of Gilkison, and waved his free hand. The other clutched a corpulent and ancient Gladstone bag, over which dangled an overcoat and a mackintosh. As Ellis drew near, Gilkison saw that the bag had been rendered lethal by the addition of a stout three-legged easel, thrust through the straps.

“Hallo, hallo, hallo,” Ellis had made one of his characteristic quick recoveries. His hair stood up briskly, his face shone. “Got a seat for me? Good.”

“A precious job I’ve had to keep it.” When he was at all agitated or excited, Gilkison relapsed into a slight lisp. “About fifty people have tried to take it. I’ve had some very dirty looks.”

“That won’t hurt you. Now then.”

Ellis looked at the full racks, then at the woman who was sitting next to his corner. Every line of her was tense. Resentment quivered up from her like heat from heather.

“Do you mind if I put my bag under your suitcase, madam? It’s far too heavy to put on top. May I move this along? Thank you. That’s most kind. Upsy!”

He executed a series of violent manœuvres, swung up the bulging bag, stood up on the seat, tucked in his coats, then jumped down, and gave the rigid lady a beaming smile.

“There we are. That’s grand.”

He sat down firmly, wedging his broad behind into the narrow space accorded him.

“Well, Gilk, my boy. Terrible lot of people travelling these days. Even the corridor’s full, further down.”

“Some people got to travel,” the woman said, to no one in particular. “And take their turn for seats.”

“Yes,” Ellis cried. “Yes. That’s the worst of our profession, madam. We’re so busy protecting the public, we get no time at all for our ordinary pleasures as citizens. Sometimes we haven’t even time to get our rations. For two weeks on end, Inspector Gilkison, my colleague here, was obliged to live on birdseed.”

Gilkison started indignantly.

“It was him or the parrot,” Ellis continued, “and, as he was in the middle of a most important case, he felt it his duty to keep going. The bird lost weight, but I’m happy to say it has completely recovered. In fact, it seems the better for its fast. Wouldn’t you say so, Inspector?”

Gilkinson’s newspaper shot up, and concealed him. Ellis beamed at it, beamed at the unresponsive face beside him, settled himself comfortably, and, without any warning at all, went to sleep.

He did not wake till four hours later, when he opened one eye, and found the train running down the gentle wooded valley that leads to Exeter. He leaned forward, stretched, shook himself, and grinned at Gilkison.

“A brief nap. Did I snore?”

“You breathed heavily.”

“Really? A mark of the greatest confidence, to go to sleep in a compartment full of strangers. Nothing makes one look sillier or more defenceless. Have you ever seen yourself asleep, Inspector? No—I suppose not. On the whole, I think you’re lucky. The recollection might keep you awake.”

Resignedly, Gilkison stood up and began taking things down from the rack. Ellis watched him.

“Let me see. Are there six victims, or only five?”

“Seven,” Gilkison said, without turning round.

“Tut, tut. You shouldn’t exaggerate. You’ll undermine the public’s confidence in the force. They’ll stand for five women killed with a chopper, or even six: but not more.”

“Get your things down. We’re nearly there.”

“I like that path. Look—there, on the other side. It runs along above the road, on a sort of cliff. Grand place for a murder.”

The train rattled in front of a row of houses, and drew into St. David’s.

“Good-bye all,” Ellis said, and got only the vaguest murmur in reply.

“I didn’t have much opportunity to study our fellow-travellers,” he went on, to Gilkison. “What were they like? Did you beguile the journey with happy chat? No? You should. You’re too much taken up with yourself, Gilk. Too self-centred. Too much the bookworm.”

Gilkison was making enquiries of a porter.

“Come on,” he said. “The train hasn’t gone yet. Here—keep that infernal thing to yourself. What in heaven’s name did you want to bring that easel for?”

“Always bring everything. Never know what you may want. But you haven’t told me about our fellow-travellers. Did they pour out their hearts?”

“They were likely to, after your saying I was a policeman, weren’t they?”

“You think it put them off? Surely not. People talk to me all right.”

“Before they know what you are. Not after.”

They climbed into the small local train, where they had a compartment to themselves. Ellis flung himself back in the seat.

“Don’t go to sleep again,” Gilkison admonished him. “It’s only twenty minutes’ run.”

“I’m short of a good twenty hours.”

“You’ll get plenty to-night.”

“That’ll only put me back to normal.”

He closed his eyes, but did not sleep. The train joggled along through placid fields and wooded valleys, stopping every few minutes at stations where nobody seemed to get in or out.

“This train walks in its sleep,” Ellis observed. “Lord! Are we there?”

The station at West Nattering has nothing to distinguish it from a thousand of its kind, but in the afternoon sunlight it looked well enough. Declining the services of an aged porter, Gilkison led the way outside. The porter, pulling himself together, followed and apologetically took their tickets. A decrepit taxi was standing in the sun. After some difficulty, Gilkison succeeded in rousing its driver, and demanded to be driven to the Plume of Feathers. Ellis took no part in these proceedings, looking about him and snapping his fingers in satisfaction.

The drive was not long, and they were soon decanted into the cool porch of the inn. Gilkison paid the driver, and went inside to the office, whence Ellis heard his clipped tones and a soft answering murmur. He stepped outside, and stood sunning himself. A cat picked its way across the road, fastidiously, as though a puddle threatened each step.

As Ellis stood, blinking and stretching himself, a burly man pushed past him and went sharply off to the right, Ellis’s trained senses took in his appearance, his well-pressed clothes, and the fact that he seemed to be in a hurry: but he paid the man no conscious attention. The sun poured down in almost solid warmth. He could feel its weight upon his upturned face. Hens were clucking lazily somewhere at the back. The peace of a Devon village: Ellis thought of his free days ahead, and purred with pleasure. This had happened well. He was glad he had come.

Then he was aware of Gilkison standing beside him, staring after the man who had gone up the road.

“That’s odd,” Gilkison said. “Did you see who that was?”

“No.”

“That was our friend Josh Nelder.”

“What—of Cuffe Street? The bookseller?”

“You could call him a bookseller; though booksellers wouldn’t like it.”

“Touchy lot, booksellers.”

“What can he be up to? There’s only one thing to bring any one who has to do with books down here; and that’s Matt Baildon.”

“Has no one else a book?”

“Nothing to interest Josh.”

“Perhaps he’s here in one of his other capacities.”

“Surely the old devil can’t have written to him too.”

“That’s it,” suggested Ellis happily. “He’s written to every bookseller in the kingdom. Twenty-five will arrive on the next train, and a further forty by the midnight. He’ll make you all bid against each other.”

“Matt isn’t selling.” Gilkison had learned to extract from Ellis’s utterances any sense they contained. “I only wish he were.”

“He may not sell to you. As I told you, you lack the human touch. Too self-centred. Josh may be more successful.”

“Josh has a very different sort of touch, certainly.” Gilkison bit his nails. “Look here. D’you mind if we go and call on old Matt this evening, after all?”

“Weren’t we going to, anyway?”

“No. Our appointment’s for to-morrow morning. I can make an excuse, and say I wanted to introduce you, and ask if you might come too.”

“You seem scared of the estimable Mr. Baildon.”

“A crusty, curmudgeonly, miserly old ruffian. But he does love books. When it’s to do with books, he’s almost human.”

“The sooner we meet this paragon, the better. But—I warn you—I must have my tea first.”

“Your dishwater, you mean.”

Gilkison led the way in, and rang the bell. A remote and rusty jangling was heard, and presently a young girl came in to answer it.

“Tea for two, please. And a great deal of hot water. This gentleman likes his tea very weak. And brown bread and butter, and marmalade.”

“I don’t know ’bout the marmalade, sir. I’ll ask.”

“If you can,” Ellis said, with an enormous smile. The girl withdrew in confusion.

“Disgusting,” Gilkison said severely.