The Mudflats of the Dead

CHAPTER 16

FAINT, BUT PURSUING

‘Oh whaur hae ye been, Lord Rendel, my son?

O whaur hae ye been, my sweet pretty one?’

Lord Rendel (Border ballad)

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Before contacting Dame Beatrice, Pinhurst said,

‘I reckon the first thing to do is to go through this lot again.’ He pushed the gleanings from Palgrave’s bureau across the desk to his sergeant. ‘You take first knock. Damned if I can come up with anything from them. If there were large, unaccounted-for sums of money in his bank account, I might suspect he’d been blackmailing somebody and the worm had turned, but there aren’t. The book is about blackmail, of course, but so are lots of thrillers.’

‘Schoolmasters don’t blackmail people, sir. If there was anything of that sort, the boot would be on the other foot, and, anyway, he wouldn’t have written about it.’

‘Suppose he’d got the goods on a colleague?’

‘It’s too melodramatic, sir.’

‘Well, you make a suggestion.’

‘A second bank account in another name?’

‘But you don’t believe in my blackmail theory.’

‘I believe in trying anything once, sir, but, no, I can’t swallow the blackmail idea, not with a schoolmaster. I’d as soon believe it of a parson.’

‘I knew a parson – knew of him, I mean – who was had up for paederasty, so you can’t go by a man’s calling. The thing is, where do we go from here?’

‘I’ll make a start on these business letters and bills for the second time of asking, as you suggested, sir. There just might be something.’

‘Well, if you can find it you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din. And that wouldn’t surprise me,’ said the Detective-Inspector dispiritedly. ‘This is my first case of murder – classical murder, I mean, not pub-brawl stabbings and beating up the Pakis and all that sort of thing – and I’m falling down on it. There doesn’t seem to be a lead anywhere.’

The young sergeant got to work on Palgrave’s papers and some time later made his report.

‘Only one thing strikes me, sir, and I don’t suppose it’s important. There’s a bill here – a receipted bill – from an agency which does typing for authors.’

‘Yes, I know. I didn’t miss it.’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘So what?’

‘The bill is for typing a top copy and two carbons of a book called Lost Parenthesis.’

‘Granted. Don’t think much of the title. Wouldn’t tempt me to pick it up off a bookstall or even off the shelves in a public library, if I hadn’t felt bound to read the typescript as being one of the documents.’

‘There is also a bill for two photo copies. The thing is – where are they?’

‘Oh, they would have been sent off to different publishers, I expect, in hopes that one copy would strike oil. That’s the way these authors work, no doubt.’

‘But Palgrave wouldn’t need to do that sort of thing, sir. He already had a publisher. This was his second book and we’ve got the original signed contract agreeing to publish his first novel called If Wishes Were Horses and calling for an option on another book from him. He wouldn’t have needed to go touting for a publisher. No doubt this option book is Lost Parenthesis.’

‘I still think— oh, no, I don’t, though! You’re quite right. He had no need to shop around.’

‘No, sir, but that’s another matter which struck me. There is no letter from the publishers about Lost Parenthesis at all. There is the first letter from the literary agents, Peterhead and Peterhead, to say that they’ve received the typescript and are looking forward to reading it before they pass it on to the publishers, Kent and Weald, but it doesn’t look as though Kent and Weald ever received the typescript. I’m wondering whether that other letter from Peterheads, which Palgrave never read because he must have been dead when the landlady put it in his room, was in answer to one of his asking Peterheads not to send Kent and Weald his novel.’

‘That sounds a bit strange. I think I’ll get on to Peterheads and find out what they’re up to. Probably got a lot of scripts to place and haven’t got around to reading Palgrave’s novel yet. Perhaps, when they do, they’ll see why he wanted it withdrawn – if he did!’

‘Likely enough, sir, but then there’s another thing. He would have sent Peterheads the top copy, no doubt, but that still leaves the photo copies and one of the carbons (there is only one of the carbons among his papers) unaccounted for.’

‘Oh, that’s easily explained, I think. He probably lent them around among people he thought would read them uncritically and tell him what a genius he was. These writer chaps are all pretty conceited, I expect, especially when they’ve only had one book published. I remember my nephew getting a letter printed in the Daily Courier. Talked about it for weeks. Oh, yes, ten to one he distributed the copies among his friends. I can’t see that it matters what he did with them, anyway.’

‘No, sir. It just struck me as peculiar, that’s all. And there’s another thing, sir. Why the photo copies if he already had two carbons?’

‘Surely that’s an easy one. If his own publisher turned the book down – always a possibility, I suppose – he would need new fresh-looking copies to send to other firms.’

‘Then where are they, sir? That was only a carbon we found. You can’t mistake a carbon for photo copy. I’ve done enough typing in this office, sir, to know. I can’t help feeling there could be something funny about the other copies, even if a friend has the missing carbon, sir.’

‘Well, you’d better go in chase of his friends, then, but I think you’ll be wasting your time. Still, we’ve no other lead. Start with that young fellow from the school. He seems to have known Palgrave pretty well. He may know where he went that Friday evening.’

The headmaster was inclined to be peevish.

‘I really must protest, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I cannot have my staff harassed in this manner.’

‘We are investigating a case of murder, sir.’

‘I am fully cognisant of that, but it had nothing to do with my school. I am, of course, horrified that Mr Palgrave should have been set upon, robbed and murdered. All too much of that sort of thing goes on at the present time, and the police seem powerless to prevent it. However, what happened, however unfortunately, to Mr Palgrave during a weekend, has nothing to do with his work here. The whole thing has led to considerable unrest in the staff commonroom and given rise to a most undesirable degree of speculation and excitement among my boys and girls. I really cannot countenance further disruption.’

‘All I need is five minutes’ conversation with Mr Winblow, sir, and it will be less noticeable if I have it here than if I go to his private address or ask him to come down to the station.’

‘Oh, very well.’ He rang through to his secretary. ‘Chase up Mr Winblow, please, Mrs Wrack, and ask him to spare me a moment. He should be in the history room with 4A. I suppose,’ he added to the sergeant, ‘there is no objection to my being present at this interview? It will enable me to determine whether Winblow ought to have a solicitor to watch his interests. He is a young, inexperienced man and may need professional advice.’

‘Remain by all means, sir. You may be able to help both Mr Winblow and my enquiry.’ They waited in silence until Winblow appeared.

‘You sent for me, Headmaster?’

‘Sit down, Winblow, and remember that you are not obliged to answer any of the sergeant’s questions unless you wish.’

‘You were aware that Mr Palgrave had written a book – his second book – I believe, sir?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Yes, of course. A very bright chap, poor Palgrave.’

‘We learn that he had various copies made of it.’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve got one, a carbon.’

‘Was it a gift to you?’

‘Not a gift, no. He said he’d like me to read it, so long as I didn’t spill tea on it or get it dogeared. Then I was to keep it somewhere safe until he asked for it in case he needed it to check by, or to send to another publisher.’

‘Somewhere safe?’

‘Yes. He said the copy he’d sent in could get lost or damaged and the copy he was keeping at his digs – well, there might be a fire or a burglary. He was pretty steamed up about the work. Said it was a major opus and would establish him for all time. Very euphoric, and all that.’

‘Have you read your copy, sir?’

‘Not yet. Thought I’d get on to it in the Easter holiday. Not much time for reading during term,’ said Mr Winblow, with one eye on his headmaster.

‘Do you know what happened to the other copies, sir?’

‘Not a clue. Nobody else on the staff here has one, that’s for sure.’

‘Thank you, sir. That’s all, then.’

The head nodded dismissal to the assistant master and, when the door had closed behind Winblow, he said:

‘Are you satisfied, Sergeant?’

‘Oh, yes, sir, thank you. It was a very minor point, but we have to clear these things out of the way.’

‘There’s a letter from a Mrs Kirby,’ said the detective-inspector upon his subordinate’s return. ‘She wants to tell us something which she thinks may have a bearing.’

‘Let’s hope it’s something useful, sir. You were right not to make anything important out of the missing copies. Apparently he distributed them among his friends for safe keeping, as I think you said.’

‘Well, you’d better get along and see what this woman has to say. Here’s the address. Any time after six, she says.’

‘Lives in Chelsea, I notice, sir. Means she may know something.’

‘You’re thinking of the river. I thought of it, too.’

‘Would a body chucked in the river, perhaps over one of the bridges, fetch up as far as the Bregant Docks, sir? It was opposite them that the body was found. There’s a big bend in the river after Hammersmith.’

‘Our river chaps would know about that, I expect, but, if you ask me, Old Father Thames is quite unpredictable. Besides, the fact that this woman lives near the river may be coincidence, so it’s no good raising our hopes too high that she really knows anything important.’

Miranda welcomed the young sergeant with the kindly warmth she extended to all visitors and offered him a drink.

‘Not just now, thank you, madam. I understand you have something to tell us which may have a bearing on the case of murder we are investigating.’

‘I don’t know whether it’s important, but, in case you didn’t know about it, I thought perhaps I should tell you.’

The sergeant took out his notebook.

‘Fire away, madam,’ he said encouragingly, so Miranda, aided at times by Adrian, gave a full account of the holiday at Saltacres and the death of young Camilla Hoveton St John. The sergeant did not interrupt her, but dotted down his shorthand in the hope that something useful might emerge from the long narrative.

‘Thank you, madam,’ he said when she appeared to have come to an end. ‘In your opinion, then, Mr Palgrave’s death could have been a revenge job.’

‘I can’t think of any other reason why anybody should have killed him. You see, the more I thought about it – it doesn’t matter telling you this now that he’s dead – and the more we talked it over, my husband and I, the more I was convinced that nobody but Colin could have drowned Camilla.’

‘That’s very interesting, madam. Thank you for your help.’ He returned to his headquarters and retailed the interview. ‘I can’t see there’s much in it, sir,’ he said. ‘We had a report on the Saltacres case, of course, but I can’t see any real tie-up. The Saltacres case was never brought in as murder. They are not even certain which day the girl was drowned, and it seems open to doubt whether anybody was with her at the time, anyway.’

‘Well, we must still have a shot at finding out where Palgrave went that Friday night. Once we know that, we really can get weaving. Until we know it we are only groping in the dark. If only we could find a motive for his death we might get somewhere, too, but I can’t believe, from your report, that this woman has supplied it. The girl died months and months ago.’

‘No, I don’t think she has helped, sir, but it was worth a try.’

‘Did you happen to ask her whether she had been lent one of the copies of the novel?’

‘No, sir. Judging by what the schoolmaster chap told me, I didn’t think it important. Besides, she only knew Palgrave through this girl picking him up on a holiday beach. I got the impression that she’d (Mrs Kirby, I mean) that she’d seen very little, if anything, of him once the holiday was over. After all, they live a good way apart and wouldn’t have very much in common, anyway. As you will see when I’ve typed out my report, sir, I asked her point blank if Palgrave had visited her that Friday night. She looked astonished and said he had not. Besides, he’s got a car, sir, and his landlady’s got a garage. It’s quite a way from Finchley to Chelsea. He would have driven to her flat, sir, if he’d gone there at all, not walked.’

‘So what about trains and buses? It could be confirmed that he left on foot, but suppose he used public transport? If Mrs Kirby was lying, and he did go to Chelsea that evening, he may well have preferred a bus rather than take his car across London. Of course we’ve tried that line, but it might be as well to have another go.’

‘A chap of Palgrave’s age would have taken his car, sir, and chanced finding somewhere to park at the other end. We know he didn’t take a taxi. We’ve sorted that out. Anyway, the impression I got was that Mrs. Kirby was telling the truth and that she’d seen little or nothing of Palgrave since the holiday.’

‘Well, ring her up and find out whether she has a copy of his book. If she has, ask whether he brought it to her himself or sent it by post. Rattle her a bit, if you can. Something might come out. When you’ve done that, we’ll go over my interviews with Palgrave’s agents and publishers. I don’t see any use I can make of what they told me, but perhaps you can make some suggestions.’

Miranda, it transpired, had received a photo copy of Lost Parenthesis by post, together with a request that she would keep it safely and return it if Palgrave asked for it back. She said she had begun to read it when it arrived, thought the early chapters were pretentious and not very interesting and that she had then turned to the last couple of pages and promised herself a full study of the book later on, as Palgrave seemed in no hurry to have her copy back. Asked if she knew where any other copies were likely to have gone, she suggested that one might have been lent to the Lowsons.

‘We met them on holiday. Colin was once engaged to Morag,’ Miranda said, and gave the sergeant the Lowsons’ new address to which they had moved when they left London soon after the Saltacres holiday.

‘Right up there?’ said Pinhurst, when he heard where they were living. ‘Oh, well, that puts them right off the map so far as our enquiry is concerned. I’ll tell you what, though. We’ve got his own carbon copy among his other stuff. I’m going to plough through it again and then you can have a go. You’ll understand why when I tell you about my interviews with Peterheads and Kent and Weald.’

The offices of Peterhead and Peterhead were in a turning off the Strand, and Pinhurst had gone to them before he tackled Kent and Weald. The agents were father and son and it was the younger partner who was interviewed.

He produced the top copy which Palgrave had sent them and also the letter which had accompanied the typescript. In it Palgrave stated that the book had taken longer to write than he had anticipated, but that here it was at last. There was also a copy of the letter they had sent back to him, promising to read the book, to which they had been looking forward, and to let him have their opinion of it if, for any reason (‘as it is only your second novel’) they thought it unsuitable for offer to Kent and Weald.

Then there was another letter:

‘Please do not proceed with Lost Parenthesis until you hear from me again. Checking the carbon copy, I have come to the conclusion that my description of some of the chief characters may be libellous.’

Pinhurst was intrigued and asked whether, in the agent’s opinion, there was any substance in Palgrave’s fears. He was assured that in the opinion of the agents there was, on the surface, no substance in them at all, unless the author had had some specific persons in mind and, even so, it was very doubtful indeed whether any of the statements in the book were actionable.

‘After we had written to him in answer to his letter when he sent us the book, we got his second letter asking us not to send the work to Kent and Weald. We tried to telephone him, but he was at school during our office hours, so we wrote another letter. I suppose that, by the time it was delivered, he was dead. We don’t know what to do about the book now. We are not prepared to ignore what must be regarded as the author’s last wishes, so we are holding on to the script in case he left any posthumous papers which can solve our problem. Possibly his next-of-kin may give us permission to go ahead with the book.’ The prospective publishers had even less to say. They had been rung up by Peterheads with the information that the author wanted to withdraw his book and had been surprised and rather regretful. They had lost money (‘as we expect to do on a first book, Detective-Inspector’) but they thought Mr Palgrave had talent. They had been given the title of his second book and a short synopsis of the plot, both sent in earlier by the author.

‘No sense in pursuing any more of these sidelines,’ said Pinhurst, ‘until we’ve found out where he went after he left the school on that Friday afternoon. I detest these chase-ups. Just a lot of dead ends to follow and dead wood to get rid of and, ten to one, no dice in the end. Oh, well, let’s get back to the landlady and that old nosey parker next door, and then we’ll have another go at your Mrs Kirby. I think she is our best bet, because if there is a tie-up between the death of the St John girl and Palgrave being given a lethal dose of arsenic, well, she’s the only person, apart from her husband, who seems to have known both parties.’

‘There are also the Lowsons, sir.’

‘Yes, if they still lived in London, but Mrs Kirby gave you a Lancashire address.’

‘People don’t always stay put in their homes, sir.’

‘Oh, well, if we get nothing in these parts, we must have a go at the Lowsons. Didn’t Mrs Kirby tell you that Lowson is a doctor, though? Doctors don’t gallivant all over the place when they’ve got their own practice. Palgrave was poisoned in London, not in Lancashire.’

‘Cherchez la femme, sir? And, according to Mrs Kirby, Dr Lowson sold his practice after he lost his father, and is engaged in research.’