All Fall Down

CHAPTER NINE

“Well.” Gilkison let out the monosyllable in shocked explosion. “Never in my life have I heard anything more utterly disingenuous than your approach to that young woman.”

“Seldom,” Ellis retorted, “can you have heard anything more utterly disingenuous than her reception of it. In any case, I don’t know what you’re complaining of.”

“The way you turned everything about, to get at her. Trying to trap her into saying something to incriminate those wretched women.”

“No, damn it!” Ellis stopped dead. “That I won’t take, even from you. Good God! And I always thought you were reasonably intelligent.”

“Perhaps I am. And perhaps that’s why——”

“Perhaps my foot. Listen, you blasted idiot. Damn it, you’ll make me angry in a minute! For sheer nerve——”

Ellis had gone a rich crimson.

“Look here, you miserable huxter. I have no theory, no axe to grind, nothing at all in my head, except the conviction that the old boy was bumped off. I don’t know who did it, any more than you do. For their sake and for everyone else’s, I devoutly hope it wasn’t either of the Baildons. But I’m not going to be such a sentimental bloody fool as to leave them out of the inquiry I’m paid by the State to make. If they’re innocent, as I hope, then the more I can find out about ’em the better.”

“So you’ve said twice already.”

“All right, all right. It doesn’t seem to have made much impression on you.”

He started to walk again, and fell in by Gilkison’s side.

“I had to make that woman talk, and I went the best way about it.”

“I can’t see that rubbing her up the wrong way helped you.”

“I didn’t rub her up the wrong way. She just flew off the handle.”

“Sheer Act of God, in fact. Nothing to do with you at all. My dear Ellis. You’ll be telling me next how tactful you are.”

“Go to hell,” said Ellis cheerfully. He had regained his composure. “I ought to know better by now than take any notice of what you say. Tell me: what did you make of her?”

“That question is rather undermined by the sentence before it.”

“Yes, yes. But let’s have your opinion, even if it isn’t worth anything.”

“She seemed to me a somewhat emotional young woman,” Gilkison said, after a pause.

“Quite. But what were the emotions? And what roused ’em?”

“Well. First of all, she is obviously fond of Joan Baildon.”

“Yes.”

“She hated the old man.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“She appears jealous of this Mr. Rattray’s giving Joan lessons. Jealous of him altogether, perhaps. Did you notice how angry she became when you asked about Joan’s attitude to him?”

“Oddly enough, I did.”

“And, at the same time, she appeared to sympathise with him about his wife. That seems a little inconsistent, to me.”

“D’you get anything else?”

Gilkison considered. “I can’t remember anything.”

“Yes, you can. One thing she said made you go all maidenly. You hated it.”

“What? I don’t——”

“When she said Joan was the old man’s daughter. There you are, you see. It disgusted you so much that you’ve forgotten it. Didn’t show a very nice mind, did it?”

“It did not,” Gilkison said, with distaste. “She even saw that herself.”

“Think she did?”

“Don’t you remember her saying we’d better consult Dr. Carter about it?”

“That was to make sure we understood what she meant. Oh no, Gilk. I don’t think for a moment that she saw herself as others saw her. D’you get anything else?”

“She seemed very touchy. But go on. I know you’re only waiting to tell me what you got, so that you can vaunt your superior powers of observation.”

“I don’t think I got much more than you did,” Ellis rejoined: “Two small things seemed to me very significant; though I’m not quite sure what they signify.”

“They are——?”

“Both had to do with Rattray and his wife; and both were slips. One she spotted and covered up, just in time: t’other she didn’t see at all. Didn’t you notice?”

“How can I tell, till I hear what they are?”

“D’you remember her saying that Rattray’s wife hangs on to him morning, noon, and night?”

“Yes.”

“Well—then she added ‘She can’t always, thank God.’ Why ‘thank God’? That slipped out; she never noticed it. What’s it mean?”

“I shouldn’t think it meant anything. As you say, it just slipped out. She probably meant ‘I’m glad to say she can’t always hang on to him.’ ”

Ellis shook his head.

“I believe that when things slip out it’s because there’s something real behind ’em. However, time’ll show.”

“What was the other thing? The one you say she covered up?”

“When she asked me what on earth connection there could be between old Matt’s death and what Joan felt towards Rattray’s wife. She said Ursula Rattray, but just before it I’ll swear she was going to say another name. Something beginning with T or D. ‘About T——’ or ‘About D——’ and then in a flash she switched it to Ursula.”

“I didn’t notice. But, even if she did, why need it mean anything? She just stumbled and mistook the name.”

“Not she. She was going to say someone else’s name.”

“Whose?”

“Oh, you ass! don’t you see? His name. The husband’s. Rattray’s.”

“Why shouldn’t she? I dare say she knows him quite well.”

“Exactly, exactly! why shouldn’t she! Therefore, why cover it up?”

Gilkison shook his head.

“This is all too subtle for me,” he complained. “I fancy you’re making mountains out of molehills.”

“I’m inclined, putting those two things together—— Hallo! here’s Bradstreet. Well, Inspector! How goes it?”

“All right, thank you. Good morning, Mr. Gilkison. A nice day.”

“Very seasonable.” Ellis dug him in the ribs. “Go on, you old devil. What have you got up your sleeve?”

Bradstreet grinned.

“Nothing, Mr. McKay. Nothing at all.”

“What are you doing here, then? Taking the air?”

“I thought, if it was convenient, you might like us to go along and see old Treweek.”

“Capital. Nothing I’d like better. Where does he live?”

“Down to the left here.”

He fell in beside them. The three gaits were so dissimilar that Gilkison gave up all attempt to keep in step.

“Any news?” Ellis asked.

“It’s all been set in motion. We should hear something by twelve o’clock. How did you get on?”

“A rather tempestuous young woman. One or two nasty spots in her mind. But I think she’ll play ball. By the way, I’ve done the dirty on you, rather.”

“How’s that, then?”

“D’you mind asking her what she was doing yesterday afternoon? I had rather a job to keep on confidential terms with her, and I didn’t want to spoil what little good impression I might have made.”

Bradstreet laughed.

“I’ll see to that all right. Did you get much from her?”

“A few small points. There’s more there than meets the eye, I fancy.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t reckon, though, she’s got aught to do with this business.”

“Not directly, perhaps. But—— Well. We’ll see.”

“Here’s Treweek’s place,” Bradstreet said.

Gilkison turned to Ellis.

“I’ll go back to the hotel,” he said. “I want to collect one or two things before I start on the books.”

“No, my lad. You stay here. I want you.”

“But——”

“Come along in, Mr. Gilkison.” Bradstreet beamed at him, and held open the little gate. “Very pleased to have you with us.”

Gilkison’s face folded up. It did this on so many occasions that Ellis could never be sure whether it meant he was pleased or the reverse. It pulled a shutter over all his feelings.

Mr. Treweek was not indoors. A scared-looking girl, whether niece, granddaughter, or some other kind of unwilling helper, whispered that he was out at the back.

“Well, fetch him in, my dear, will you? Tell him that Inspector Bradstreet would like a word with him.”

The girl departed silently, after a pale glance at each of them in turn. It was very stuffy in the small, crowded room. Bradstreet placidly opened the window—it took a bit of forcing: both latch and hinge were stiff and rusty—tipped a sleeping cat off one chair, removed an old coat from another, and insisted on Ellis and Gilkison seating themselves. He stood in front of the fireplace, thrusting out an enormous chest, rocking to and fro on his heels. He cocked an eye at the low smoky ceiling and whistled very softly through his teeth.

Ellis looked up at once.

“Maritana,” he said.

“Is it? I never remember names. I was in the café in to Exeter with Mrs. Bradstreet the other day, and they were playing a thing I know as well as I know my own name; but do you think I could remember what it was called? She couldn’t, either.”

Ellis suddenly raised a rich but rather throaty tenor.

“That’s it,” Bradstreet said. “Go on.”

Ellis sang on to the end of the stanza. Before he finished, the door opened slowly, and an old man stood in it, staring in sheer amazement. Seeing him, Ellis bowed and waved a hand, but did not stop.

“Then you’ll remember me,” he carolled. “Now you’ll remember, Inspector. You won’t ever forget the name of that again.”

“Maybe you’re right. Good morning, Treweek. Let me introduce these gentlemen. This is Detective Inspector McKay from Scotland Yard, who’s just been singing so nice. And this is Mr. Gilkison. We’ve come to ask you one or two questions about Matt Baildon.”

A look of cunning at once overspread the weazened, resentful features. The visitors observed that Mr. Treweek had only one eye.

“Ah,” he said. “You can’t put nothin’ on to me.”

He blinked at them rapidly, and drew in his mouth, for all the world, Gilkison thought, as though he were pulling tight the top of a sponge bag: a comparison facilitated by his lack of teeth. A thoroughly sly, unpleasant old specimen, the bookseller decided, and an apt confidant for the unlamented Matt.

“Nobody wants to put anything on you, Treweek,” Bradstreet said equably. “What makes you think that?”

“We only want your help,” Ellis added.

Mr. Treweek’s answer was to close his eye and tap the side of his nose.

“I knows the sort of ’elp you gents wants. You wants a chap to say ’e done what ’e never, so as you can put en away and save yourselves the trouble of lookin’ for ’oo reely done it.”

“Hard words,” Ellis said. “Hard words, and ill deserved. I’m surprised at you, Mr. Treweek.”

“I’ve ’ad some,” said the ancient, with satisfaction. “I knows.” He looked at Bradstreet. “Well, you don’t get no ’elp from me this time. I wasn’t nigh the place, not in a mile and a ’alf of it, all afternoon.”

“What place?” Bradstreet’s face was all innocence. “What afternoon?”

“Come off it,” said Mr. Treweek, in disgust. “Keep that talk for babbies. It don’t go with me You knows what I mean, so well as I do. Us all knows you and these ’ere genelmen from Lunnon are goin’ round makin’ wise Matt Baildon was dood away with, w’en all that ’appened was a ’unnerweight o’ books failed ’pon top ees napper.”

“You don’t know that, Mr. Treweek,” Ellis purred. “You were a mile and a half away.”

Mr. Treweek’s eye gleamed malevolently.

“Nor you don’t catch me like that, neither. Makin’ up traps for a man. ’Tisn’t no cop. I got a dozen o’ witnesses where I was to, all afternoon. Oversot that if you can.”

“We haven’t the least desire to oversot it,” Ellis assured him. “There’s only one thing we want to ask you, Mr. Treweek, and it’s got nothing to do with what you were doing yesterday afternoon.”

“Then why for d’ee want to ask it?”

“Will you put it to him, Inspector, or shall I?”

“It’s quite simple, Treweek. You went in to see Mr. Baildon from time to time?”

“What if I did? That isn’t no crime, is it?”

“Not at all,” Ellis said. “Most meritorious.”

Treweek eyed him sourly, then looked back at Bradstreet.

“Now and then, I believe, he used to ask you to post a letter for him.”

“No law against that; not as I knows of.”

“Can you remember if he gave you any letters during the time he was ill?”

“I don’t take no account of little things like that. Why should I?”

“I just wondered if you did; that’s all. When did you go to see him last?”

“Can’t say. Pity I don’t keep a di’ry, isn’t it? I shall ’ave to, for the future, by the look o’ things.”

“Have you been within the last week or ten days?”

Mr. Treweek drew his mouth together again. His eye glittered. Bradstreet looked at Ellis.

“Well,” he said peacefully. “If you won’t tell us, we’ll have to ask Mrs. Baildon.”

“She don’ know whether I was there or no.”

“She’ll know if she saw you. You might be there without her knowing, I admit. But she couldn’t see you if you weren’t there. Come on, man. What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t trust ee.” He grinned angrily. “I don’t see what you’m about: ’cep’ that you’m tryin’ to put somethin’ ’pon me what I never done.”

“We only want to know whether you were there recently, and whether Mr. Baildon gave you a letter to post.”

Treweek’s mind went off on a fresh tack. They almost heard it click.

“If ’e did, I shouldn’t call it to mind, not special. ’Tisn’t nothing so remarkable, to be give a letter to post.”

“He did often give you letters to post, then?”

The old man pondered cunningly before replying.

“I won’t say often: but ’e did ’pon times.”

“And he gave you one last week?”

“Maybe ’e did, and maybe ’e didn’t.”

Suddenly Ellis snapped round on him, so peremptorily as to make him start back.

“We know he did. Don’t try to deny it. And we know the address on the envelope. It was to Joshua Nelder, of Cuffe Street, London.”

“That it wadn’t, then,” Treweek squealed shrilly. “ ’Twas to Gilkins, or Gilkson, or some such bliddy name, see? So you bain’t so clever, after all.”

“Gilkison. This gentleman here, in front of you. Thank you, Mr. Treweek. That’s all we wanted to know.”

Ellis sat back, and regarded him benevolently.

“Why couldn’t you have told us that at once? It would have saved a lot of trouble.”

“ ’Tisn’t none of my place to save you trouble,” Mr. Treweek rejoined, with manifest ill humour. “That’s all you thinks about. When anything goes wrong in these parts, you tries to pick on someone nigh and ’andy: ’stead o’ goin’ up to the camp or the aerodrome, where they’m responsible, nine times out o’ ten. Afeared to go there, bain’t ee? Don’t want no trouble, eh? Gaah!”

Bradstreet got up.

“Well, Treweek. We’ll be seeing you again, I expect. Thanks for your information. Don’t trouble to see us out.”

“Gaah!” said Treweek again, disgustedly.

They walked out into the road in silence.

“You took a bit of a chance with him,” Bradstreet reproved Ellis.

“I know. I’m sorry. I got fed up. Anyway, he didn’t post any letter to Nelder.”

“No. I don’t reckon he did.”

“What camp and aerodrome was he talking about?”

“Dendle. And Possbury. They get the blame for everything locally—poaching and all. Well—what will you do now? Come back with me?”.

Ellis looked at his watch.

“Twenty past eleven. Let’s go and try our luck with Rattray.”

“On second thoughts,” Bradstreet said, “I think I’ll come and start you off with him. He knows me. He might think it odd if I left it all to you, and kept out of sight. Might think we had something on him. I’ll just introduce you, and then clear off.”

“Good man. That’ll be fine. I—yes—wait a minute. It might be. By God, it might.”

Ellis stood for a few seconds pointing, like a corpulent dog. Bradstreet exchanged glances with Gilkison.

“Got it!” Ellis exclaimed. “I knew there was something I was trying to remember, and it had slipped to the back of my mind. Gilk—yesterday evening—when we were talking to those two women: did you spot how it rattled them when I asked if old Baildon had written to a bookseller?”

“Now you mention it, I did.”

“Well. Does that say anything to you?”

“I can’t say it does.”

“Not coupled with the interview we’ve just had?”

“No.”

“Well.” Ellis grinned at Bradstreet. “Think it over.”