Death of a Delft Blue

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Gavin Reports

‘This digression, I trust, will not be censured, as it relates to a matter exceedingly curious…’

James Boswell

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During the weeks that followed, Gavin wrote letters to Laura as often as his work permitted. Laura invariably passed these epistles over to Dame Beatrice, realising that the information contained in them was intended as much for her employer as for herself. Summarised, and then expanded into a connected narrative of events, they provided a dullish but credible story.

In spite of the open verdict at the inquest on the first barmaid, the local police had decided to treat the case as one of murder. The death of the second girl justified them, they felt, in coming to this decision, since there seemed no reason to suspect that a suicide pact had been made between the two young women.

‘Of course there hadn’t,’ commented Gavin, on this. ‘Girls of this kind don’t make suicide pacts with one another. They leave that to crazy mixed-up boy and girl adolescents who think they’re in love.’

Gavin had been well received by the Superintendent with whom he was to work, and all the available data were placed at his disposal. There was not a great deal to be learned. The girls were friendly towards one another, exchanged confidences about their boy-friends but were in no sense in rivalry with regard to these. The first barmaid had her postman and the other girl had an understanding with a builder’s labourer in Glossop. There was no mention made of Florian’s virtuous Gertie.

The vehicle by which the poison had been administered was another matter for speculation. Enquiries at chemists’ shops over the widest possible area failed to produce any evidence of a purchase of hydrocyanic acid, and all the poisons books were guiltless of any record of a sale which could not be checked.

Gavin, not for the first time, tackled the landlady who had employed Effie, the first girl, and then the landlord of the public house at which the second barmaid had worked. He met with the same blank wall in both cases. He thought that the landlady might be unreliable, but he was convinced that the landlord was clear-sighted, puzzled and worried.

‘She was such a sensible lass,’ he insisted upon repeating. ‘She wouldn’t have fallen for any funny stuff, sir, I know she wouldn’t. A sensible, level-headed lass, if ever there was one. In the bar here since she was one-and-twenty, as I won’t have them younger than that, being a married man with growing-up daughters of my own. Oh, a pleasant-spoken, up-to-the-minute girl, of course she was. You don’t want a deaf-mute behind a bar counter, now do you, sir? But a good girl — church-goer and all that, when she could attend out of licensing hours — yes, I’ll swear to that. A good girl she was.’

Nothing was to be gained, Gavin thought, from this kind of asseveration. He made further enquiries, but always came to the same dead end. There was no reason whatsoever, it seemed, why anybody should have wished either barmaid any harm.

He turned his attention particularly to the case of the second girl, because she did not live in, as Effie did, but here, again, there seemed nothing to learn which could shed any light upon the reason or reasons for her apparently untimely end. The two girls, as he had already been told, had been friendly, a relationship which dated back to their schooldays and which had persisted probably because they lived in the same part of the county. The second girl was named Mabel and her boy-friend, the builder’s labourer, was called Mervyn. His help was enlisted, but proved abortive, Mabel had no enemies, she was ‘not the quarrelsome sort’, had no troubles, so far as he knew, was ‘about the last to want to do for herself’, and had had an understanding, ‘but nothing definite, sir,’ with himself for the past two years.

He did not seem unduly cast down by her death, Gavin thought. Possibly he was relieved (illogical though it was) at being rid of an acquaintance who ‘got herself done in with prussic acid’. Gavin visited his home and questioned his parents and his sister. These were adamant on the question of Mervyn’s being ‘a good boy’, and one quite free from any suggestion of having brought about ‘funny business’ in connection with Mabel, an euphemism, obviously, for what, in other parts of the country, was referred to as ‘trouble’.

His mind, his mother stated, was on his work. He was saving hard, with the idea of starting out on his own as a free-lance plumber, builder and decorator. He had ‘learned the plastering’, had a good head for heights, could ‘do chimneys and that’ and, in other words, (said Gavin, discussing the case over a pint of beer in the Superintendent’s home, where he had been invited to stay while enquiries were in progress), was a man with an eye to a future which might, or might not, have included Mabel.

Gavin tried the boy’s employers. They managed and ran a smallish, prosperous, up-to-date business with showrooms in Glossop and a respectable turn-over. There was a girl to take orders and make promises of possible dates for work to commence in customers’ houses, for, although they referred to themselves as builders, their contracts, they told Gavin, were almost exclusively concerned with repairs, renovations and. improvements to existing property, and there was a full-time plumber, the hall-mark of a prosperous small business.

They knew nothing of Mabel. Their employees’ private affairs were nothing to do with them, provided that punctuality, sobriety and dependability were not sabotaged in any way. Yes, Mervyn was a reliable chap. They had employed him for the past eight years. No, he had not served an apprenticeship. He was not a brick-layer or in a union. He had applied to them for a job upon leaving school, had seemed a willing youngster and they had always been satisfied with him. He had picked up the work as he went along, and had developed into a useful, all-round man.

‘Nothing more to be had from them,’ said Gavin, to the Superintendent. ‘There’s only one conclusion to come to, and that is that these young women were poisoned by accident.’

‘Prussic acid isn’t exactly an accident,’ protested the Superintendent, ‘but I take your point. Somehow or other, they swallowed stuff that was intended for somebody else. But how would that have been possible?’

‘Sweets,’ said Gavin. ‘Somebody quite innocently fed them poisoned sweets. That’s the only conclusion I can come to.’

‘Quite innocently, you think?’

‘Yes, I do. What’s more, I think I may know who it was. The trouble will be to make him come clean.’ (He had had the thought of poisoned sweets from Dame Beatrice.)

‘Well, it can’t be a nice thought to know you’ve poisoned two girls, however much of an accident it may have been. Whom have you got in mind, Mr Gavin?’

‘A young man named Colwyn-Welch, who was staying down here for a while to study limestone caverns and so forth, and worked in a garage. Mind you, I’ve no evidence that he did anything more than buy some girl an occasional half-pint. Of course, he may sometimes have treated the barmaid to a beer—’

‘And she’d have pulled that for herself.’

‘Yes. As I say, if he poisoned the girls I can’t help feeling that it was unintentional, and it’s quite likely he didn’t, at that. But if the poison wasn’t acquired locally, it must have come from outside the district. You and I have both made the most exhaustive enquiries about strangers coming into the neighbourhood, and, except for this youth, have drawn a blank.’

‘Some of these commercial travellers are not all they claim to be, Mr Gavin.’

‘I know. But, there again, we’ve combed out Glossop and got damn-all. I’m going to have another word with the landlady of that pub — the other chap, the landlord, obviously knows nothing — and then I’ll have another go at Effie’s postman friend, and, if that brings nothing new, I’m off to Norfolk.’

The landlady could do no more than confirm that the barmaid had had a sweet tooth. She had kept chocolate peppermint-creams under the counter most days and would sometimes offer one to a favourite customer. Yes, the landlady herself had often accepted one. When she had had her last bad cold she could taste the peppermint when she could not rightly taste anything else, without it might be a hot whisky and lemon. She knew of no strangers, commercials or otherwise, coming to the bar, except the young gentleman with a double-barrelled name who had quarrelled with his folks, the landlady thought, and was waiting for things to blow over. In fact, he had said as much to Effie and was keeping himself by working in the local garage, which it did seem a pity to get those nice hands — ‘more like a young girl’s they were’ — all messed up with oil and stinking of petrol and that. However, he had gone home now. All must have been forgiven and forgotten. Yes, he had been gone quite a day or two before Effie took poison and died. She had wondered whether Effie had gone and fallen for him in any way. It would not have been surprising, so good-looking and beautifully-spoken he was.

‘But what about the other girl?’ Gavin asked. ‘That’s why we are inclined to rule out suicide, you see. It’s not very likely they both committed suicide, is it? Do you know anything about the other girl at all? What about her?’

‘Ah, yes, Mabel,’ said the landlady, and sighed. ‘That’s more of a mystery, that is. If Mabel met the gentleman once, it was (so far as anything I knew) the only time, unless, of course, there was something underhand going on.’ (This, again, was reiteration, and Gavin sighed inwardly, thanked her and went off to have his fourth interview with the postman boy-friend).

He was fortunate enough to find this youth off-duty and anxious to discuss a new theory.

‘Look,’ said the postman, ‘there’s this dog, see?’

‘What dog?’

‘This Great Dane. Used to frighten me, it did. Big as a young calf, and savage! — well, I couldn’t tell you! I says to the sub-postmaster, I says, “I ain’t a-going nigh that there Hound o’ the Basketvill”, I says, “not if the Postmaster-General hisself was to go on his bended knees to me,” I says. “That dog,” I says, “ain’t one of the ’azards as I’m called upon to face,” I says. “Terriers, yes,” I says. “Them you can fend off. Mongrels, yes,” I says. “Friendly, most mongrels is. Boxers, grey’ounds, even collies, (although they can be treacherous), yes,” I says. “Pekes, Poms, Labradors, setters, bulldogs, Bostons — I’ve, even knowed a nice-natured Rhodesian ridgeback and a well-be’aved Alsatian-all of them,” I say, “and welcome, but a Great Dane no! Anyway, not this partic’lar one. He’s a maneater, that’s what he is.” But the sub-postmaster don’t see it my way.’

‘You mean you refused to deliver letters to this particular house?’ asked Gavin.

‘I made my protest, but the sub-postmaster, he says as how my duty has to come first. I’m paid and employed to deliver letters and parcels, he says, and dogs is beside the point. Dogs, he says, is an occupational ’azard, and owners can be summoned for keeping a savage animal, or one not under control. “And how’s that going to help, if I gets bit and contracts ’ydrophobia?” I asks him; but he don’t shift his opinion.’

‘How does this get us any further?’ asked Gavin. The postman looked surprised. He was a moon-faced, pop-eyed youth who had no difficulty in expressing this reaction.

‘I’m a-telling you,’ he said. ‘I discusses the problem with Effie and she says as how a dog o’ that sort could do with a dose of poison. I reckon she must have tried it on to help me out, but somewhere it misfired and got her instead o’ the dog.’

Gavin made a note, thanked him gravely, said he would look into the matter and went back to the Superintendent.

‘Would you know where this ferocious dog hangs out?’ he asked lightly. The Superintendent grinned.

‘That will be Mrs Hitchcock’s Marmaduke,’ he said. ‘Harmless as a kitten. Probably thinks he is one. I shouldn’t waste your time there, Mr Gavin.’

But Gavin was thorough, in spite of his secret amusement when he thought over the conversation with the postman. He obtained Mrs Hitchcock’s address and went along immediately after tea.

The door was opened by a wispy woman who had an intelligent face. She was accompanied by an extremely large dog which immediately put its forepaws on Gavin’s shoulders and gave his face an ecstatic and all-embracing lick.

‘I don’t really want to buy anything just at present,’ said the woman. The dog got down and regarded Gavin with sentimental affection.

‘I am a police officer, madam,’ said Gavin, putting a hand on the dog’s head. ‘I have been apprised of the fact that your dog is dangerous.’

‘What, Marmaduke? (We call him that after that adorable dog in the newspaper). Marmaduke dangerous! He’s a simple love! Simple-minded, too!’

‘Yes,’ said Gavin. ‘May I come in?’

‘Well,’ said the woman doubtfully, ‘I suppose so, if you really want to. My husband doesn’t like me to admit strangers. The last one was the electricity. Only, he wasn’t, you see. The gas men you can be pretty sure of, because of the uniform, but the electricity only seem to carry those awfully thick notebooks. Still, if Marmaduke likes you, it will be all right, I suppose. On guard,’ she added, addressing the dog. The dog careered up the stairs and came down again in a slither on his stomach. Mrs Hitchcock led the way into the drawing-room. Several half-finished paintings lay about, propped against bookcases and armchairs, and a half-dressed doll was lounging on the settee. Mrs Hitchcock cleared a space. Gavin produced his credentials, as a matter of form. Mrs Hitchcock waved them aside.

‘Have you had tea?’ she asked. ‘Oh, you have? That’s a good thing, because we never have it, but, of course, I would have got you some if you’d wanted it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gavin, offering her a cigarette, ‘I came to ask whether anybody had ever threatened, or attempted to poison, your dog.’

‘What, Marmaduke?’ repeated the lady. The dog ambled up to Gavin and lay down on his feet. Gavin extricated his members. ‘Poison him?’ pursued Mrs Hitchcock. ‘But he’s the dearest love in the world! Who on earth would want to harm him?’

The dog raised a paw and whacked it down on her lap.

‘The postman seems afraid of him,’ said Gavin. The dog snorted, stretched himself on the carpet and filled the air with the sound of canine, contented sleep. Gavin gave up his mission, took his leave and went back to the Superintendent.

‘Nobody tried to poison him,’ he said. ‘The dog’s mentally afflicted. A little child could feed him prussic acid and the dog would swallow it with kisses. Norfolk it is, for me, I’m afraid. You might wish me luck. I’ll be back as soon as there’s news — if any.’

‘Half a minute, Mr Gavin,’ said the Superintendent. ‘You’ve rung a bell in my mind. May be nothing in it at all, but you mentioned poison and a dog, and that brings something back to me. That second girl, Mabel, kept a dog, and when I called to see the poor mother, dashed if I could make out whether she was crying more for her daughter or for the tyke.’

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Gavin. ‘That might account for something that’s been nagging at me ever since I came down here.’

‘Yes, Mr Gavin?’

‘If the poison was conveyed in some form of sweet-stuff — in fact, however it was conveyed — we ought to be able to trace the vehicle, you know. Most of the sweets that adults buy for themselves are wrapped. In fact, lots of things are packaged nowadays which used not to be. Of course, we don’t know yet what the vehicle was which contained the poison, but, if you don’t mind — I mean, you’re certain to have covered the ground and all that — but I wouldn’t mind having a go at Mabel’s mother myself.’

‘I’ll get Constable Mead to drive you there at once.’

The house was an unpretentious, semi-detached affair on the Glossop-Sheffield road, some distance away from the village. Gavin introduced himself as a police officer and was invited in. The room was tidy but needed dusting. The woman was grey-haired and untidy and her apron could have been cleaner. She appeared conscious of these minor defects, swept the hem of her apron over the wooden arms of a grandfather Windsor chair and said:

‘The place is rare and mucky, but I’ve lost my prop and stay, as you might put it.’

‘I’m very sorry indeed. And you’ve lost your dog, too, so I hear,’ said Gavin. The soiled hem of the apron was applied to the woman’s eyes.

‘He laid down and died next to Mabel,’ she said. ‘Died of grief, poor old Toby did. That’s what he done — died of grief.’

‘Yes. Where did you bury him?’

‘Out the back. My neighbour came and done it after he’d gone for the doctor to see after Mabel.’

‘Whereabouts was the dog buried? You see, Mrs Sims, I don’t think the dog died of grief. I think he ate something your daughter ate, and died of poisoning, just as she did. Can you think of anything they might have shared? That particular poison acts very quickly. Were you at home at the time?’

‘Which I was not. I got a little job to go to — oh, not enough to upset my pension nor nothing like that, but you know how it is with widows with an only daughter. There don’t be much coming in, and what with the rent and one thing and another, well, you see how it would be, and I would never be one to break the law or take a chance, or nothing like that…’

‘No, no, I’m sure not. Look, Mrs Sims, we must have your dog dug up again. It may be very important. I want you to stay indoors and not to worry, and as soon as we’ve finished with Toby we’ll bury him again in the same spot, and you’ll never know he’s been disturbed.’

‘If you say so, sir,’ agreed Mrs Sims, on whom Gavin’s charm and good looks had made an extremely favourable impression.

‘And you have no idea what your daughter and Toby may both have eaten which proved fatal to them?’

‘I haven’t no idea in this world. Of course Toby — I’m not saying he was a greedy dog, mind you; he was too well fed for that — but he tended to gollop.’

‘Gollop?’

‘Yes, you know — gollop. Swallered things wholesale. He golloped a lump of steak once as I’d got special of a Saturday to go with fried onions. I must say I did pay ’im for that. Well, I mean, you must learn ’em right from wrong, mustn’t you? Paper and all he golloped that steak, and when I went to look for it to fry it, there was me lord on his belly underneath the kitchen table. “Oh, so that’s where it is!” I says, and he couldn’t deny it. Yes, a golloper, poor old Toby was — a real golloper.’

The unpleasant business of disinterring Toby was accomplished on the following day and his pathetic but by no means antiseptic remains were committed to the care of the district pathologist, the result of whose labours was interesting and instructive. Toby yielded an appreciable dosage of hydrocyanic acid, some undigested chocolate cream and enough silver foil for the forensic laboratory to decipher the letters RDAM on it.

‘Clear enough,’ said the Superintendent, apprised at (to his relief) fairly long range of these findings. ‘Came from Holland, Mr Gavin, and I somehow fancy — you having sketched in Mr Colwyn-Welch’s background for us — that you surmised it. Amsterdam, Rotterdam — what other Dutch dams are there?’

‘Well,’ said Gavin, who had taken more interest in his wife’s visit to the Netherlands than she would have thought probable, ‘there are Schiedam, Volendam, Monnikendam, Edam (where the cheese comes from), Zaandam and the miniature city — a show piece-of Madurodam, but these, you will note, lack the necessary R in the oyster months. No, Amsterdam or Rotterdam it is, so I’m off to Norfolk, as I said.’