The Mystery of a Butcher's Shop

CHAPTER XIV

What Happened at the ‘Queen’s Head’

I

SAVILE did not see her arrive. Clad in nothing but dark-grey flannel trousers and a pair of old shoes, he was standing in the middle of the back garden path between a gooseberry bush and a clump of lavender. His attitude, which might have graced a master of the ballet, seemed far from pleasing to Cleaver Wright, who, pipe in mouth and blue eyes narrowed into slits, was seated on the kitchen steps with a drawing-board on his knees and a scowl of intense ferocity on his brow.

‘No, no!’ he shouted. ‘It’s no good like that, you ass!’

He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed with the stem of it at Lulu Hirst, who was watching the proceedings from a hammock slung between two apple trees.

‘Tip that girl out of there and hoist her up above your head. I want to see those back and shoulder muscles brought into play. You’re supposed to be a Japanese wrestler, damn you, not a tailor’s dummy or a sinuous Salome! Come here, Lulu, and don’t act the fool, or he’ll drop you. Now then, Savile! Up with her!’

‘Half a moment,’ demurred Savile, with his oily smirk. ‘These trousers. Too long. Inartistic, my dear fellow. If I am to be a Japanese wrestler I must look the part. My artistic conscience –’

‘To hell with it!’ said Wright resignedly. ‘Go on, then. Only buck up.’

Savile stepped carefully over him and disappeared into the house. Lulu rolled gracefully back into the hammock and curled herself up like a sleek yellow cat. Mrs Bradley, smiling gently, advanced towards Cleaver Wright. Wright grinned.

‘Take a seat,’ he said. ‘You ought to pay, really. Look. Isn’t that beautiful?’

Mrs Bradley drew out a small reading-glass and surveyed the returning Savile. He was clad effectively and with great simplicity in a loin-cloth. His satin skin glistened with oil. Without a look or a word he trotted across to the hammock, gathered up the recumbent form of Lulu with as much ease as he would have handled a kitten, and carried her across the garden to his former position in the centre of the path.

‘Now then,’ said Wright. ‘Up with her. That’s the ticket. Can you keep her there a second?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Savile, who, to Mrs Bradley’s surprise, appeared to find little difficulty in holding Lulu clear above his head on outstretched arms. The muscles of his back and shoulders stood out like cords under the beautiful, creamy skin. It was a delight to look upon such perfect muscular development.

Wright picked up a piece of charcoal.

II

‘Well,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘I never would have believed it!’

‘No,’ agreed Wright, putting finishing touches to his sketch. ‘A bit startling, isn’t it? He looks such a worm in his clothes. But take them away, and, damn it, the chap’s a pocket Hercules. Most surprising fellow.’

He held the drawing at arm’s length and studied it thoughtfully.

‘Not too bad,’ he said at last. ‘Two guineas. Want it?’

‘Yes, if you’ll take me in and show me the other things you have done, young man,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I have never seen a studio. It will be an experience for me. And at my age’ – she glanced at him out of the corner of a beady black eye – ‘one embraces new experiences with avidity, because there will come a time –’ She broke off and cackled – a harsh, unlovely sound. Wright looked pained. His bright, intensely blue eyes sought hers sombrely.

‘Oh, come now, auntie –’

‘Beatrice,’ supplied Mrs Bradley promptly.

‘Thank you, Beatrice. Ah, come now, Auntie Beatrice! Don’t talk like that. Come in quick, before you cause me to burst into tears. Look see! This is my dear little room.’

Mrs Bradley followed him into his studio. The first thing which took her eye was a large plan of a human skeleton, carefully annotated in small neat script and covered with red-ink dotted lines. She examined this plan with great interest.

‘Most informative,’ she said at last, after giving it a prolonged scrutiny.

‘Yes. Old Savile stuck that up and wrote the book of words. Thinks it helps him to draw pictures of gods and wood-nymphs! Heaven knows why. I find the thing rather revolting.’

He turned the elaborate chart with its face to the wall, and led her over to a stack of canvases.

‘And the model of Rupert Sethleigh’s head,’ said Mrs Bradley, when she had examined several oil-paintings and Wright had directed her attention to a small clay figure of a Roman gladiator. ‘Did you model that in here?’

‘That? Oh, yes. Funny business, that, you know. Deuce knows what happened to that skull. You heard, I suppose, that when the police johnnies broke up my model to get the skull out, they found a bally coconut inside? Most astounding! Well, it astounded me, anyhow! Most extraordinary thing. I couldn’t believe it. Thought the inspector was pulling my leg at first. But no!’

‘The silly part was,’ said Savile, who had entered behind them, and was once again the sleek-haired, sallow-complexioned, rather unpleasant person Mrs Bradley had met at Felicity’s tennis-party, ‘that the coconut itself was the one which our young friend –’

A sudden crash drowned the rest of his sentence.

‘Damn!’ said Cleaver Wright, picking up a dummy figure which had been seated in a rakish attitude on top of a tall pedestal. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Bradley, for the wicked word, but I’ve broked my poor dolly.’ He stroked the head of the repulsive object tenderly.

Mrs Bradley smiled, and involuntarily Cleaver Wright squirmed. He had seen the same gentle, anticipatory, patient smile on the face of an alligator in the London Zoological Gardens. It was a smile of quiet relish. It was the smile of the Chinese executioner. In spite of the afternoon’s warmth, Wright found himself shivering. He changed the subject hastily, and laid the dummy down.

‘I suppose the police have pretty well made up their minds that poor old Redsey killed his brute of a cousin?’ he asked.

Mrs Bradley raised her sparse, black brows.

‘Really?’ she said. ‘I don’t know why you should think that.’

‘Oh, one reads the papers,’ said Wright carelessly. ‘That’s all. Still, one is very glad one has a complete alibi, of course,’ he added, grinning wickedly, ‘as one is known to have disliked the chap oneself.’

‘A complete alibi?’ Mrs Bradley grimaced. ‘Then you’ve more than I have, young man. If the police came and asked me where I was on the evening of Sunday, June 22nd, I should be compelled to tell them that I was alone in the house from four-thirty until five minutes past eleven; that nobody called during that time; and that, had the spirit so moved me – which, in confidence, young man, I may inform you it did not! – I could have gone out and killed Rupert Sethleigh without a soul being any the wiser!’

She hooted with owl-like amusement. Cleaver Wright grinned.

‘Well, I’m better off than you,’ he said. ‘I went to the “Queen’s Head” for a nightcap, and got embroiled in a row with a great oaf of a farmer called Galloway. Didn’t finish the scrap until nearly closing-time. Choice, wasn’t it?’

‘Did you get hurt?’ asked Mrs Bradley.

‘Got pretty badly knocked about,’ said Wright carelessly. ‘Never mind.’ He grinned again.

‘And you bear Mr Galloway no malice?’ said Mrs Bradley musingly. ‘That is so nice, I think. It is what they call the true sporting feeling, isn’t it? They teach it at the Public Schools now, don’t they?’

Wright glared at her suspiciously. Women, especially ancient dames like this one, were fools, he knew. Yet was it possible – ? But Mrs Bradley’s wrinkled yellow face was mild and sweet as that of a grandmother – which, owing to the extreme distaste displayed by her only son for the whole female sex, she certainly was not! – and Wright was forced to the conclusion that – alas for the progress of feminism! – it was possible! The woman was an idiot. Why had he shivered when she smiled?

He grunted and moved towards the door. Mrs Bradley followed him, but on the way she paused at some shelves of books. On top of the bookcase was a fine array of silver sports trophies.

‘Old Savile’s, mostly,’ said Wright.

Mrs Bradley drew out her reading-glass and scanned the engraved inscriptions closely.

‘But you have two,’ she said, with a beam of senile futility. ‘How very nice! What did you do to win such lovely cups? Oh, and there’s a belt! How extremely amusing. What are they for?’

Wright shrugged his shoulders.

‘Oh, for boxing,’ he said carelessly. ‘About the only thing I’m any good at in the sports line.’

‘They are pretty things,’ said Mrs Bradley, even more fatuously than before. ‘You must be clever!’

When she had gone, Wright pulled on an old pair of boxing-gloves, made one or two preliminary sparring movements, and then, by way of relieving his feelings, measured the distance with his left hand and then with his powerful right he split a panel of the studio door from top to bottom.

III

Mrs Bradley entered the bar of the ‘Queen’s Head’ in some trepidation. It is not often that respectable elderly ladies, expensively, albeit hideously, clad in magenta silk dress, summer coat to match, large black picture hat (quite ludicrously unbecoming, the last-named, to Mrs Bradley’s beaky bird-like profile and sharp black eyes), walk into the bar of a public house. At the ‘Queen’s Head’ such an occurrence was absolutely unknown.

Wandles Parva (or those three-quarters of it which could command the entrance to the house of refreshment from the cover and vantage-point of the upstairs bedroom window) was keenly interested.

‘Be going to ask Billy Bondy for a subscription for the church, like?’

‘What, she? Never you need think so! Her don’t never go into church without it might be on a weekday like any of they heathenish Catholics, and then her only goes there-along to gape at the old door and the windies, like silly folks in they charries from London do come and do!’

Mrs Bradley addressed herself to the landlord, a small, alert, bright-eyed Cockney.

‘Kindly call to mind,’ she said, ‘the evening of Sunday, June 22nd.’

The landlord looked perplexed. Would there be any special reason – ‘Oh, ah! Of course! That there murder!’

‘No, not the murder. I heard rumours down in the village of a fight between –’

‘Alfred Owen Galloway, of this town, and what’s-his-name Wright, late of Somewhere Else,’ supplied the landlord humorously. ‘Quite right, mum. So there were. ‘Ere they stood, right in this very bar. We pushes back the old table to give ’em room. On my right, Mr Galloway. On my left, Mr Wright – only ’e’ appened to be all wrong that evening. There was no seconds as you’d notice, and the rules was ’ardly Queensberry, nor yet N.S.C. I acts as timekeeper, referee, stooards, manager and permoter, and Evening Star special reporter all at once. And at twenty past nine, mum, I starts ’em ’orf by me watch – Greenwich time.

‘It wasn’t too bad, mum, for about a round and a ’arf. Mr Wright was nicely inside ’imself, and looked to me to ’ave the style and the science in ’itting. But at the end of Round Two ’e lets Galloway put ’im to the ropes – which is to say this ’ere counter – with a nasty left ’ook, and only the call of time saved ’im from punishment. Well, when the fight was resoomed in the third round, Wright was seen to be weakening. ’E stopped a left-’anded wallop to the jaw, but Galloway’s right found ’is claret, which began to flow ’eavy. A sharp exchange o’ blows follered, but Galloway, gettin’ excited, steps in and mixes it as nice as I ever see. It weren’t science, mind you, but it was real meaty! A nice two-’anded scrapper only wants a bit o’ training to be a world-beater, mum, as you know. Well, Wright took some nasty body-blows, and we ’ears ’im grunt as they got ’ome on the short ribs. Suddenly Galloway gets ’im in the stummick – a foul blow, by boxin’ law, but we was bein’ broad-minded that evenin’ – and as the pore feller comes forward – doubled-up, you know – Galloway gets ’im under the jaw with a cosh what made the glasses rattle on this ’ere tray.

‘Well, I counts Wright out, and we brings ’im round and ’elps ’im on with ’is coat, and some of the fellers would ’ave ’elped ’im ’ome, but ’e preferred to go orf on ’is own. Well, the chaps stands Galloway a pint or two as the winner, and we shakes ’ands with ’im all round, and ’e goes ’ome.’

‘I have to thank you, Mr Bondy,’ observed Mrs Bradley, ‘for a most exceptionally concise, clear, and interesting account of the proceedings. You are not a Wandles man, I take it?’

‘Wandles?’ The landlord found the spittoon in the corner with unerring aim. ‘King’s Road, ’Ammersmith – that’s me. Used ter be a perfessional footballer, I did. Played for Fulham. Unlucky team, Fulham is. Still, me benefit was all right. After I collected it, I retires, and buys this ’ere little ’ouse. It’s a nice little ’ouse, but sometimes I finds myself thinkin’ wistful-like of the lights and the trams and the drunks and the gals and the Pally Dee Danse where we went when we was flush, and the little ’all orf the Bridge Road – billiards and pool and snooker – where we went when we wasn’t – and takin’ the old lady to the’ Ammersmith Palace or the Shepherd’s Bush Empire to see ’Etty King and them – I tell you, mum, it’s an ’orrible thing to be ’omesick. There’s bin nights in Bossbury when I could ’a’ sit and cried just with the stink of the fried fish shops remindin’ me of the old Grey’ound Road!’

Mrs Bradley paid his homesickness the tribute of a few moments’ unbroken silence. Then she said:

‘And how did this quarrel between Mr Wright and Mr Galloway begin?’

‘It began,’ said the landlord, with a reminiscent grin, ‘it began, mum, with Mr Wright taking an ’og-pudden and ’itting Mr Galloway over the napper with it. It would a-bin a lovely fight if only Wright ’ad stood up to ’im,’ he went on regretfully. ‘But ’e give in, and Galloway fair et ’im. I’d give a pound note ’ere and now to see a match between Galloway, if ’e’d ’ad a bit of trainin’, and Battlin’ Kid Stoner of Parsons Green. Of course, if young Mr Redsey, what there’s some nasty rumours about down in the village on account of the murder of ’is cousin Squire Sethleigh – if only ’e’d bin ’isself ’stead of sitting there as screwed as an owl or a bookie’s tout on Derby Day from about ’arf-past eight till closing time, we might ’ave put ’im up against Galloway. I see ’im in an exhibition bout at a charity fair down in Culminster a week or two back. Nice style, mum, but too much of the gentleman to suit me. Ever see Bombardier Wells fight, mum? Ain’t yer? Well, if you ’ad, you’d know more what I mean. Afraid to ’urt the other chap’s feelings, like. Plucky as they make ’em – so’s this Mr Redsey – but don’t seem to go in and mix it like the rough-necks do. I remember a little Sheeny as used to doss orf the Gold’awk Road – regular lovely little two-’anded fighter, ’e was. Take on an elephant and make it look sick, ’e would, if the boys ’ud trot out the dough. ’Ad to give ’im the purse first, though, we did. ’E wouldn’t fight without. No charity matinees for ’im! But ’e’d come up grinnin’ at the end of fifteen rounds like the bloomin’ little thoroughbred ’e was! Reminded me of a fox-terrier dawg I used to ’ave. Game as game! And, as I say, carried a two-’anded punch as wouldn’t do no discredit to a middle-weight champion. No temper, y’know, mum! ’Eart of gold! But ’e’d fight with ’is ’ead and ’e’d fight with ’is guts and ’e knowed when a bit of rough stuff was the goods, and would ’and it out liberal! Cut and come again, like! But this ’ere Mr Redsey – ’e was more like a dancin’-master. You know – tap and prance, tap and side-step – it were more like the Russian bally than anythink I ever see. ’E’d be a stretcher-case in a rough-’ouse, ’e would. And that’s why,’ said the landlord, very earnestly, ’when I ’ears silly ginks in this ’ere bar talking about ’im doin’ this ’ere murder, I says to ’em that they ’ave no business to think the young gent done it, no matter what anybody says. I says so to Constable Pearce me own self. I says to ’im, “Pearce,” I says, “you oughter know more about charicter,” I says, “than to try and get evidence agin’ a young gent,” I says, “what I’ve seen – yes, me, with these ’ere eyes,” I says, “with a chap’s guard right down and ’is jaw just askin’ for the count of ten,” I says, “just flick it with ’is open ’and and then grin silly-like. ’Tain’t likely,” I says to ’im, “as a chap that can’t bring ’imself to slosh a jaw what’s ’anded ’im on a plate, is goin’ for to do a murder,” I says. “Especially this murder which is by way of being what I calls a very nasty murder indeed. It ain’t in nature, Mr Pearce,” I says to ’im. And in my experience, which is wide and deep, what’s not in nature, mum, don’t ’appen!’

Mrs Bradley was about to reply when she observed that two labourers had entered the bar. So she thanked the landlord and departed, leaving the astonished villagers with half a crown apiece and an admonition to spend at least a portion of it in drinking the health of Battling Kid Stoner of Parsons Green.

Outside the door a new thought struck her. She re-entered the place, and, having waited near the door until the labourers had been served and were seated, she again approached the landlord.

‘By the way, Mr Bondy,’ she said casually, ‘where did Wright obtain the – er – the hog-pudding with which he struck Galloway on the head?’

‘Where? Why, mum, ’e pulled it out of Galloway’s coat-pocket, Galloway ’avin’ been give it by ’is grandmother over by Short Woodcombe for ’is Monday morning breakfast. Galloway wouldn’t a-minded so much if it ’adn’t bin ’is own ’og-pudden, you see. Sort of add insult to injury, that were. They tied the ’og-pudden round Mr Wright’s neck arterwards,’ he concluded, with hearty relish, ‘and told ’im ’e was born to be ’anged! It was a good length ’og-pudden, and the ends just met nice at the back.’