Murder's a Swine: A Second World Way Mystery Page 4

  “Andrew,” Agnes said simply, “I think you’re wonderful.”

  Eggshell was not so sure. “Yes, I thought of that myself. But who is this someone?”

  Agnes countered smartly, “Who stood to gain the money if anything happened to Mrs. Sibley? Coppenstall?”

  “You’re wonderful, too,” murmured Andrew.

  “That remains to be discovered, ma’am. Is Mrs. Rowse a relation?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “When did Mr. Sibley die?”

  “About four years ago, I believe. She came to the mansions on his death and took Mrs. Rowse to live with her.”

  Eggshell said slowly, “Let’s suppose Coppenstall was the heir. Now he’s dead, who’s next? Assuming she should die intestate?”

  “Someone,” Andrew suggested, “who is a funny man. The sort who puts on funny hats at parties, bursts balloons and frightens the children into fits. The sort who buys disgusting fancies from the practical joke shops—Whoopee Cushions, Spilling Glasses, Dirty Fidoes. Altogether, a vile piece of goods. And, of course, he’s Mrs. S.’s next of kin.”

  “Maybe,” said Eggshell, “maybe.” He rose. “Well, I’ll be pushing along. Inquest on Thursday, eleven-fifteen. See you there.”

  When he had gone, Andrew asked his wife how she would like to spend the evening.

  “Pig,” she said remotely.

  “Now listen, haven’t you had enough bacon for one day?”

  “I meant our Pig. Lord Pig.” She referred to Andrew’s cousin, Lord Whitestone, who was someone of considerable importance at Scotland Yard. His sobriquet was the result of his strong facial resemblance to the animal, a resemblance that had led Andrew, as a small boy, to attempt the fastening of a ring through his cousin’s nose. This incident had aroused some friction and a lifelong coldness only mitigated by Pig’s dour affection for Andrew’s wife, whom he had met in connection with a series of grotesque murders handled by Louis Chalon, now safely lodged in Broadmoor.‡ “Let’s go up and see him, shall we? I’m sure he’d be very pleased to have visitors. It must be very dreary for him sitting all day in that dismal little room, even if he is swell enough to have a carpet on the floor.”

  ‡ See Tidy Death.

  But Andrew thought differently. “He wouldn’t be in his room at this hour of the evening; he’d be at home, junketing respectably with Mary. But anyway, this is different from the Chalon affair. The police are in on this corpse already, so we can’t butt in on their preserves. Besides, there’s nothing to go on yet awhile.”

  “I only meant a social visit—not official. Let’s ring Pig up now, and then we can go up immediately after dinner.”

  “Immediately after dinner we’re going to see Garbo,” her husband replied firmly.

  *

  The most maddening thing about Agnes was that, since her marriage, she had become jovial at breakfast. Before meeting Andrew she had behaved fairly reasonably at this meal, eating in comparative silence and reading her paper from the front-page splash to the Births, Marriages and Deaths. Now, behold her in tailored gown of black corduroy, her musical legs bare, her symphonic feet in cherry-coloured mules. Hear her singing a verse from A Foxtrot for a Play, by W. H. Auden (whom she much admires), as she butters her fourth slice of toast:

  “‘Some are mad on Airedales

  And some on Pekinese,

  On tabby cats or parrots,

  Or guinea-pigs or geese.

  There are patients in asylums

  Who think that they’re a tree;

  I had an aunt who loved a plant,

  But you’re my cup of tea.’

  “You are my cup of tea, Andrew. Have another?”

  “Another what?”

  “Cup of tea.”

  “No. Yes. Be quiet, darling. I want to read the P.M.’s speech—Parapluie Munichoise, in case you didn’t know. When on earth is something going to happen? It always comforts me to think that I’ve been an anti-Fascist since Fascism was invented and anti-Hitler since 1933. I don’t have to make the right-about-turn some chaps do.”

  “Andrew, do you think Mrs. Sibley will still hold her meeting?”

  He mumbled through marmalade, “What meeting?”

  “Well, last week she sent round letters asking us to go up to her flat tonight and discuss how we could work together to protect Block 3 against fire. If she is holding it, we’d get the full cast together, wouldn’t we? It would be interesting to watch them all.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The late Mr. Coppenstall.”

  Andrew’s eyes lit with unexpected approval. “I see what you mean. Why not find out from Mrs. S. if she still means business?”

  “I will. I’ll go up this morning. There are one or two other little matters I’d like her to clear up,” she added mysteriously.

  “Now look here, don’t you go butting in on the poor woman.”

  “I shall be the soul of tact,” Agnes reproved him. “To market, to market to buy a fat pig, Home again, home again, jiggety-jig,” she trolled pleasantly, until her husband, leave or no leave, was forced to take his newspaper into the bedroom where it was quiet.

  That morning she dressed herself in sympathetic black, put on rather less make-up than usual and went upstairs to call on Mrs. Sibley. Mrs. Rowse, to her relief, was out shopping in the West End.

  “Do forgive me for intruding,” said Agnes, “but I did want to know if you were still having the fire meeting.”

  Mrs. Sibley’s eyes protruded. “But certainly! I hope I should always put patriotism before private troubles.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Agnes smiled approval. “Well, we’ll both be there. Is everyone else coming?”

  “Everyone—or rather, Mr. Warrender will come if he’s not working. Will you have a little sherry? I feel low this morning. Poor Phyllada had to go out, I know, to buy mourning-gloves and scarves for us both, but I don’t mind confessing to you that after my recent shock I don’t like being alone.”

  “I’d love some sherry,” said Agnes, with a ghastly glance at the bottle which, despite her breakfast cheerfulness, was still having some effect upon her. She comforted herself with exploded saws about hairs of dogs.

  As they sat together over a very small gas-fire that burned the insteps while the calves froze, Agnes manœuvred the conversation in the direction she desired. Finding, however, that no manœuvring would lead her to the information she most wanted, she risked a frontal attack.

  “Mrs. Sibley, I know this may sound dreadfully impertinent, but I’m so anxious to have this horrible business cleared up, and one never knows what may hinge on apparently insignificant things, does one? Will you tell me if—” She blushed. “—If Mr. Coppenstall would ever have… have come into any of that legacy?”

  Her hostess stared. “Yes, I’m afraid that does sound impertinent. Still, you’re a nice girl, Mrs. Kinghof, and you’ve been very kind to me, so I don’t mind telling you. Yes, Reginald would have inherited. Having some conscience, I made my will in his favour and told him, when I replied to his brutal letter, that he must wait for his fortune.”

  “And now?”

  “As my will stands… but I shall be making a new one, I expect. Naturally my next of kin will inherit.”

  “And that is—?”

  “You’re asking a lot of questions, aren’t you?” said Mrs. Sibley acidly. “Well, I suppose there’s no reason for concealment. Maclagan Steer.”

  “Maclagan Steer?”

  “Reginald’s boy. When his wife left him, she lived with Steer for two years, then asked Reginald—impudent creature—if he would allow her to divorce him. He had few good qualities, I fear, but chivalry was among them. He assented. She married Steer, and the boy, who was then five, lived with her till he reached his majority, when he changed his name to his mother’s. Encouraged by Steer, he was acting in repertory from the age of seventeen; he had talent, I believe. At twenty-two he went out on a Canadian tour, and his mother lost track of him completely. She and Steer were killed in a railway accident a year later, and the boy, for all I know, has vanished off the face of the earth.”

  Agnes said, “Could he know that, failing his father, he would inherit?”

  Mrs. Sibley grinned sourly. “I have had a reputation—perhaps exaggerated—for conscience in family matters. My conscience was a family tradition. Yes, I think Maclagan would have assumed it. But why all this, Mrs. Kinghof? I really can’t see—”

  “I’m sorry,” Agnes said quickly. “You must be furious with me. I’m only asking questions in the hope of getting a lead, but there doesn’t seem to be one. How old would Maclagan be now? What does he look like?”

  “Thirty-two. Look like? How should I know? I’ve never set eyes on him since he was a squinny thing of ten. His mother brought him to tea once. We never got on well, though she did write to me occasionally.”

  “Thank you,” Agnes said, “and please don’t be angry with me.” She rose. “Very nice sherry.”

  “Not at all,” said Mrs. Sibley vaguely, and with unconscious truth. She was lost in thought, and her eyes were half-hidden by her heavy yellow lids.

  Mrs. Rowse came in, her arms full of parcels. “Oh, Mrs. Kinghof! How nice of you to call! Such a morning, Addie dear, everything so hard to get, though I’ve got it now, and I’ve had to leave poor Fernia on the roof of the gym, and you know how difficult it is for me when I have to break my inspiration. Addie, are you feeling all right? You look white. It’s her heart,” she explained to Agnes, “it’s been weak all her life, ever since she was a mere tot, and the doctor says she should always be protected from shocks. What, are you going? Well, we hope to see you tonight at our little meeting.”

  “Phyllada!” Mrs. Sibley said abruptly. “I want you to telephone my lawyer immediately after lunch. Oh, good-bye, Mrs. Kinghof.”

  Agnes made her farewells and went thoughtfully across to the “Green Doe”, where Andrew was awaiting her report.

  He looked sober. “Weak heart. Yes. Frightening tactics. Yes. Does she know, do you think? Does she connect up the pig-stuff with Coppenstall’s murder?”

  “I think she does, but she’s ashamed to tell anyone. I imagine she was a bit greedy, and that she certainly did exert undue influence on her auntie.”

  Andrew patted her hand. “Smart work. I suppose you realize that when Eggshell goes over just the same ground with Ma Sibley, she’ll burst with rage?”

  “I don’t give a damn if she does. Andrew, there’s one big question in all this. Have you guessed it?”

  He took a long drink, stubbed out his cigarette and lit another before he answered her.

  “Yes, I have… Agnes, I like you in that suit. Did I pay for it, or did you?”

  “You did. The pockets are quite new, aren’t they? It’s a Chaumière model. It may be a mite cold for this sort of weather, but I can’t bear to squash it under a coat. Andy, don’t fool. What’s the question?”

  He replied slowly, “Who is Maclagan Steer?”

  Chapter Four

  That night, on the stroke of eight, the Kinghofs left their flat. They were greeted by Mr. Lang, who rose out of the depths below like a rosy hobgoblin, his curly fair hair flattened as much as was possible, his bow-tie, for once, neatly centred. “Hey! You two going to the Convention? Wait for me.” He ran up to join them. “I say, Mr. Kinghof, I owe you an apology for playing sillyfools the night before last. I’d been on a bit of a whoop-up, I’m afraid.”

  “Glad to have been of service,” said Andrew, looking curiously at him. “I must admit I was scared you’d break your neck on that pipe. You weren’t in any state for athletics.”

  “I know. I’d been to about six parties, and I can’t even remember where three of them were. I’ll have to ask around a bit. Heard anything more about our corpse?”

  “Nothing new.”

  Climbing the last flight together, they found Madame Charnet on the mat outside Number 10. “So seelly,” she said, “I can’t make them hear.”

  “Perhaps the bell’s run down,” Agnes suggested, and she pressed it vigorously, afterwards putting her ear to the glass panel. “Doesn’t seem to ring. Where’s the knocker?”

  Mr. Lang seized the brass dog’s-head cunningly placed just where the eye did not readily observe it, and banged loudly.

  Lights went up inside the flat, and in a moment Mrs. Rowse opened to them.

  “Ah, here you all are! Welcome to our little gathering. I hope you’ve come simply full of practical suggestions. Mrs. Kinghof, Madame Charnet, may I take your wraps? And if the gentlemen will join Mrs. Sibley in the lounge—”

  She waited while Agnes and the Frenchwoman took off their coats and hung them on the hooks behind the door.

  “Half a minute,” Agnes said, “my shoelace has come untied.” They lingered for her, while she knelt to adjust it, then went into the lounge, where she followed them.

  Mrs. Sibley, who had already appointed herself chairman, had made up her mind that the proceedings should be business-like. She was seated in the big armchair, and before her was a table on which were pencils and a pad of paper. Andrew, who liked to be warm at all costs, was sitting on the floor before the fire. Mr. Lang was perched in puckish fashion upon the stool, eager, attentive.

  “Now, Mrs. Kinghof,” said Mrs. Sibley, casting a disapproving glance at Andrew, whose informal posture was, she considered, jeopardizing the dignity of the meeting, “if you’ll take the high-backed chair, perhaps Madame and Mrs. Rowse will make themselves comfortable on the sofa.”

  “Oh, I’d just as soon sit on the sofa,” Agnes gaily interrupted, plumping herself upon it. She did not mean to sit in the bleak piece of faked Jacobean, with the cane broken in back and seat. Mrs. Rowse, having failed to move her by a stare of affront, was herself forced to take this instrument of torture. When all were seated, Mrs. Sibley reached for the shillelagh and knocked smartly on the table, clearing her throat to command attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we won’t waste time.”

  “Hear, hear!” said Felix Lang.

  “Mr. Warrender, I hope, will come, but we must begin without him and if he arrives later we will acquaint him with details of our discussion. Now, down to brass tacks.”

  “Brass—?” murmured Madame to Agnes, who hissed, “Figure of speech. Means ‘get going’.”

  “Ah. Ah, merci beaucoup.”

  The shillelagh sounded angrily.

  Andrew said, “A moment, please, Madame Chairman. Ladies and gentlemen, I should like, before we begin, to express our appreciation to Mrs. Sibley for continuing this good work despite her—her recent strains and stresses.”

  “Hear!” yelped Mr. Lang. “Good show!”

  Mrs. Sibley flushed with faint pleasure. “Thank you, Mr. Kinghof. Now then. The business before us tonight is to discuss how best we can protect these premises against possible incendiary bombs. The landlords have supplied us with a sand-bucket, kept on Floor 3, and a long-handled scoop. Some of us feel, however, that these precautions are insufficient. Has anyone any plans for further precautions, or ideas on how we should organize ourselves into a fire party?”

  Madame Charnet said diffidently, “I ’ave ’eard, at A.R.P. lectures at the Town ’All, that eet is good to spread bran in the attic. The butcher is vairy good with letting me ’ave bran for my leetle cat, and I could easily spare some for putting under the roof—”

  Five faces were constricted with emotion.

  “It is sand one spreads in the attic,” said Mrs. Sibley. “Bran would not be suitable, not suitable at all. But thank you very much.”

  “I am so sorry. My Eenglish is yet not good.”

  “But the idea,” said Andrew, “is excellent. May I make the concrete suggestion that we approach the landlords for a supply of sand, and get Blake to put it up in the attic?”

  “I second that,” Mr. Lang enthused. “Oh, good show. Sound scheme.”

  “Blake can be very difficult,” Mrs. Rowse said mournfully.

  “Not if he’s well tipped,” Agnes answered. “I propose we make a collection for the purpose of tipping him.”

  “One motion at a time, please! Captain Kinghof has proposed that we approach Messrs. Carr and Co. for a supply of sand. Mr. Lang has seconded. Any amendment? No? Will all in favour signify in the usual fashion?”

  All in favour said Ay.

  “Phyllada, will you please enter that in the minutes? Now, Mrs. Kinghof has suggested that we open a common fund for a gratuity to Blake for services rendered.”

  “Services that may possibly, with any luck, be rendered,” said Lang.

  “Does anyone second?”

  “I second,” said Andrew.

  “I don’t think Carrs will give us any sand,” Mrs. Rowse grieved, scribbling away at the minutes in a small note-book.

  “We are acting on the assumption that they will,” the chairman rebuked her. “I fear you are out of order. The motion has been put. Will all in favour—”

  Again they said Ay.

  At that moment the door-bell made a faint, but recognizable, chortling sound.

  “Did I hear the bell?” Mrs. Sibley enquired.

  “I think so,” said Agnes. “It’s a bit run down, so we used the knocker.”

  “Phyllada, will you please answer it? It will be Mr. Warrender.”

  “I’ll go,” said Andrew, bounding athletically upright from crossed ankles.

  He went out into the hall and admitted George Warrender, a small thick man in his middle thirties or early forties, to whose flat face a big black moustache and a total lack of eyebrows gave an arresting appearance. “Oh, Kinghof. How are you? Meeting begun? Sorry I couldn’t get along before. Had the devil of a job as it was, prising myself loose.”

  “We’ve passed two resolutions,” said Andrew. “Mrs. Sibley is in the chair and Mrs. Rowse is writing an amazing number of minutes.”

  “Oh. Oppressive, eh?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Business-like.”

  “Tomfoolery,” said Mr. Warrender. “What do they know about fires? Well, where’s the meeting? Lounge? All right. Lead on, Macduff.”