“I don’t care who hears me, I’ll put a name to him, and that-there name’s Robert Legge. Now!”
“A very positive old article,” said Alleyn, when Fox returned from seeing Abel Pomeroy down the corridor.
“I don’t see why he’s made up his mind this chap Legge is a murderer,” said Fox. “He’d only known deceased twenty-four hours. It sounds silly.”
“He says Watchman gibed at Legge,” said Alleyn. “I wonder if he did. And why.”
“I’ve heard him in court, often enough,” said Fox. “He was a prime heckler. Perhaps it was a habit.”
“I don’t think so. He was a bit malicious, though. He was a striking sort of fellow. Plenty of charm and a good deal of vanity. He always seemed to me to take unnecessary trouble to be liked. But I didn’t know him well. The cousin’s a damn’ good actor. Rather like Watchman, in a way. Oh well, it’s not our pidgin, thank the Lord. I’m afraid the old boy’s faith in us wonderful police has been shaken.”
“D’you know the Super at Illington, Mr. Alleyn?”
“Harper. Yes, I do. He was in on that arson case in South Devon in ’37. Served his apprenticeship in L. Division, You must remember him.”
“Nick Harper?”
“That’s the fellow. Devon, born and bred. I think perhaps I’d better write and warn him about Mr. Pomeroy’s pilgrimage.”
“I wonder if old Pomeroy’s statement’s correct. I wonder if he did make a bloomer with the rat-poison and is simply trying to save his face.”
“His indignation seemed to me to be supremely righteous. I fancy he thinks he’s innocent.”
“Somebody else may have mucked about with the bottle and won’t own up,” Fox speculated.
“Possible. But who’d muck about with hydrocyanic acid for the sheer fun of the thing?”
“The alternative,” said Fox, “is murder.”
“Is it? Well, you bumble off and brood on it. You must be one of those zealous officers who rise to the top of the profession.”
“Well, sir,” said Fox, “it’s funny. On the face of it, it’s funny.”
“Run away and laugh at it, then. I’m going home, Br’er Fox.”
But when Fox had gone, Alleyn sat and stared at the top of his desk. At last he drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write.
Dear Nick,
It’s some time since we met, and you’ll wonder why the devil I’m writing. A friend of yours has just called on us: Abel Pomeroy of the Plume of Feathers, Ottercombe. He’s in a state of injury and fury, and is determined to get to the bottom of the Luke Watchman business. I tried to fob him off with fair words, but it wasn’t a howling success and he’s gone away with every intention of making things hum, until you lug a murderer home to justice. I thought I’d just warn you but you’ll probably hear from him before this reaches you. Don’t, for the love of Mike, think we want to butt in. How are you? I envy you your job, infuriated innkeepers and all. In this weather we suffocate at C.I.
Yours ever,
Roderick Alleyn.
Alleyn sealed and stamped this letter. He took his hat and stick from the wall, put on one glove, pulled it off again, cursed, and went to consult the newspaper files for the reports on the death of Luke Watchman.
An hour passed. It is significant that when he finally left the Yard and walked rapidly down the Embankment, his lips were pursed in a soundless whistle.
Chapter VIII
Alleyn at Illington
i
Superintendent Nicholas Harper to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn —
Illington Police Station,
South Devon.
August 8th.
Dear Mr. Alleyn,
Yours of the 6th inst. to hand for which I thank you. As regards Mr. Abel Pomeroy I am very grateful for information received as per your letter as it enabled me to deal with Pomeroy more effectively, knowing the action he had taken as regards visiting C.I. For your private information we are working on the case which presents one or two features which seem to preclude possibility of accident. Well, Mr. Alleyn — Rory, if you will pardon the liberty — it was nice to hear from you. I have not forgotten that arson case in ’37 nor the old days in L. Division. A country Super gets a bit out of things. With kind regards and many thanks,
Yours faithfully,
N. W. Harper (Superintendent).
Part of a letter from Colonel the Honourable Maxwell Brammington, Chief Constable of South Devon, to the Superintendent of the Central Branch of New Scotland Yard —
… And on the score of the deceased’s interests and activities being centred in London, I have suggested to Superintendent Harper that he consult you. In my opinion the case is somewhat beyond the resources and experience of our local force. Without wishing for a moment to exceed my prerogative in this matter, I venture to suggest that as we are already acquainted with Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn of C.I., we should be delighted if he was appointed to this case. That, however, is of course entirely for you to decide,
I am,
Yours faithfully,
Maxwell Brammington, C. C.
“Well, Mr. Alleyn,” said the Superintendent of C.I., staring at the horsehoe and crossed swords that garnished the walls of his room, “you seem to be popular in South Devon.”
“It must be a case, sir,” said Alleyn, “of sticking to the ills they know.”
“Think so? Well, I’ll have a word with the A.C. You’d better pack your bag and tell your wife.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“You knew Watchman, didn’t you?”
“Slightly, sir. I’ve had all the fun of being turned inside out by him in the witness-box.”
“In the Davidson case?”
“And several others.”
“I seem to remember you were equal to him. But didn’t you know him personally?”
“Slightly.”
“He was a brilliant counsel.”
“He was, indeed.”
“Well, watch your step and do us proud.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Taking Fox?”
“If I may.”
“That’s all right. We’ll hear from you.”
Alleyn returned to his room, collected his emergency suitcase and kit, and sent for Fox.
“Br’er Fox,” he said, “this is a wish-fulfillment. Get your fancy pyjamas and your tooth-brush. We catch the midday train for South Devon.”
ii
The branch-line from Exeter to Illington meanders amiably towards the coast. From the train windows, Alleyn and Fox looked down on sunken lanes, on thatched roofs, and on glossy hedgerows that presented millions of tiny mirrors to the afternoon sun. Alleyn let down the window, and the scent of hot grass and leaves drifted into the stuffy carriage.
“Nearly there, Br’er Fox. That’s Illington church-spire over the hill, and there’s the glint of sea beyond.”
“Very pleasant,” said Fox, dabbing at his enormous face with his handkerchief. “Warm, though.”
“High summer, out there.”
“You never seem to show the heat, Mr. Alleyn. Now I’m a warm man. I perspire very freely. Always have. It’s not an agreeable habit, though they tell me it’s healthy.”
“Yes, Fox.”
“I’ll get the things down, sir.”
The train changed its pace from slow to extremely slow. Beyond the window, a main road turned into a short-lived main street, with a brief network of surrounding shops. The word “Illington” appeared in white stones on a grassy bank, and they drew into the station.
“There’s the Super,” said Fox. “Very civil.”
Superintendent Harper shook hands at some length. Alleyn, once as touchy as a cat, had long ago accustomed himself to official hand-clasps. And he liked Harper who was bald, scarlet-faced, blue-eyed, and sardonic.