Lieutenant-Colonel Cecil Blessington-Smythe, 23 Field Squadron, Royal Engineers (retd.), DSC and bar, pillar of his community, owner of Papwith Lodge and its 30 acres of rolling wealden grassland, co-owner of three racehorses, honorary chairman of Ashes, the exclusive gentleman’s club in Mayfair (though he had not attended for five years or more), Secretary of the South Weald Cricket Club, and election agent for the constituency Conservative Party. Cecil, dear old ‘Bless Me’, found dead in his potting shed, discovered there by his chauffeur, who promptly called in the local constabulary. Why, you might ask, should that be his first thought? What might yours be, ask yourself, entering the quiet, peaty atmosphere of that old garden shed, were you to find its distinguished owner face down in the compost with a pair of garden shears upright between his shoulder blades?
Before the august officers of the Sussex Constabulary made their appearance, however, the Lodge had another visitor. At around 2:15 that afternoon, a taxi pulled up in front of the main steps to the house, and a tall, lugubrious figure uncoiled himself from the passenger seat. His clothes were unremarkable except for a distinctive homburg, with cut feathers tucked into its olive green band, feathers you might think looked like an angler’s fly lure, and you’d be correct. The new arrival must have been cramped in the confined space of the small car, and straightened himself, with audible cracks of the joints, to his considerable height before resuming what was evidently a customary stoop. Then he looked about him, taking in the broad sweep of the gravel drive, flanked by its carefully manicured topiary, and the weathered front of the grand house. ‘Mock Regency,’ he decided, ‘ugly and pretentious, but plenty of money here. ’Dispatching the taxi, he ambled to the tall front doors, and rang.
A lengthy wait and repeated rings finally produced a figure in black, more stooped than himself, and considerably more ancient, with thin strands of white hair adorning the shiny pate to which our visitor was obliged to address himself.
‘Good afternoon. I am expected. Diogenes Papaanastasiou. Kindly be so good as to inform the Colonel.’
The ancient figure before him made no move, and the tall visitor considered his options. Was the man particularly hard of hearing? Was he lost in contemplation? Perhaps overawed by the arrival of such a renowned private detective?
Finally the old man croaked a reply. ‘No good, sir. He’s gorn, the Colonel ‘as.’
‘Well, I shall wait for him. If you would be so good as to let me know where. And perhaps you can bring me a small snack while I wait. Some dolmades, a club sandwich or two, a chicken salad, whatever you have convenient. Don’t trouble yourselves on my account.’
‘No, no, yer don’t understand. ‘E ain’t comin’ no more. ‘E’s gorn. Snuffed it, like. Police is on their way, sir.’
The tall man’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah! Then I must wait, indeed.’
‘Suit yerself. ‘Spose yer better come in.’ With laborious effort the butler, for such he was, shuffled his way down the entrance hall, and ushered the detective into a library.
Left to himself, Papaanastasiou made an assessment: a comfortably furnished room, a capacious old armchair beside an ornate side table, a large old stone fireplace, evidently still in use, heavy drapes pulled back to display a view of a terrace with an immaculately maintained lawn and flower beds beyond. He decided the well-stocked bookcases, with their rows of books in identical bindings, appeared much less well used than the drinks cabinet.
The ancient butler reappeared with a cheese sandwich. ‘All we got, sir, right nah. Cook’ll be along later. Could do yer a drink, though, I reckon. Might even join yer.The old boy ain’t gonna worry abaht this one.’
There being no ouzo, the detective accepted a brandy, and the butler helped himself to a large neat scotch. He took a big swig, and immediately his expression softened into a contented grin. ‘First time fer everythin’, eh?’ he smiled at the detective. Papaanastasiou inclined his head in non-commital acknowledgement, surmising from the appearance of the man’s nose that this was not a first time for much other than his own celebrated presence.
The old butler became expansive. ‘That’s a foreign name, you got there, isn’t it sir? Italian, is it?’
‘It is a Greek name, but I am not from Greece, I am Cypriot.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to ‘ear that, sir. Mustn’t worry though. We got some lovely doctors in this country.’
The jangling of a bell in the hallway announced another arrival, and the butler crept off to answer the door. Some minutes later a brisk man of about 35 was shown into the library. The butler shooed him towards the taller man in order that he might discreetly retrieve the remains of his scotch, and shuffled back out of the room.
The new visitor introduced himself, apologizing for his delay, having been despatched from constabulary headquarters in Lewes. Extending a hand, he said ‘Sussex CID, Detective Sergeant James Pillock.’
‘Did you say-’ but before Papaanastasiou could complete his sentence the policeman cut in: ‘Yes, I’ve heard all the jokes.’
‘Jokes? about the CID? I should enjoy to hear. Your English humour intrigues me. No, I wondered if you worked with Inspector Japp.’
‘Oh. No, sir, sorry. I’m with Sussex, and I work in the county. Chief Inspector Japp moved up to London. Did you know him, the Old Man?’
‘Yes, indeed, Sergeant. We have, shall I say, collaborated in numerous investigations. Diogenes Papaanastasiou. You have heard of me, no doubt.’ The older man permitted himself a smug smile, confident that his name would achieve an effect.
‘Ah, is it you, sir? A pleasure to meet you. Of course I’ve heard. That case of the Japanese haggis, and the Whiffenpuff murder, where you proved it was the horse that did it. Brilliant. But the Inspector has retired. I understood you’d retired too.’
‘Ah, that is true, but it is no easy thing for a man of my enquiring mind to waste such gifts.’
‘Looks like you got here pretty damn quick, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘I was called by the Lieutenant Colonel upon another matter, and well, here I am. I arrive too late to assist him in that, but, with your agreement Sergeant, I believe I may yet assist the poor Colonel.’
The Colonel’s ‘other matter’ had reached Papaanastasiou while on a short holiday in Hastings. He had wandered aimlessly for two protracted days in the old part of the town and sat upon the stony beach, gazing disconsolately at the fishing huts. Time weighed heavily upon him. When the Colonel’s redirected message reached him he took it up gratefully. It spoke of ‘an extremely delicate matter, requiring the utmost discretion’. The old detective’s senses were immediately intrigued, and he felt life stir again within his bones, or it might have been those early signs of rheumatism he had been warned about.
The two detectives adjourned to the potting shed to view the scene of the crime. The body had not been moved, but someone had thrown a horse blanket loosely over it, and it hung incongruously like a tent from the end of the shears. The sergeant flinched when the blanket was moved, but our hero peered intently, with professional curiosity, and the policeman soon joined him.
‘A grisly business, sir, very messy.’
‘Please, call me Papaanastasiou.’
‘Ah, yes, right sir, I mean Pap- Pap- Pop- Ooh, look, sir,’ and the young policeman cast about, managing to find specks of blood on the wall of the shed at a distance.
‘Indeed sergeant, much force was used, I think.’
As they left the shed, Diogenes asked the Sergeant his first thoughts. ‘Well, sir,’ the younger man replied, ‘we’ll have to wait for the forensic chappies of course, but in my professional opinion I suspect we can rule out suicide.’ He rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation. ‘Foul play, that’s my theory. We don’t get a lot of this sort of thing here.’ He paused for a moment, and then added, with a smile: ‘Except on the cricket pitch.’
In the library the two men compared notes on what they knew of the deceased. What kind of man was he? Divorced many years previously and single since, his ex-wife was understoodto have re-married and moved to South Africa. Did he have any enemies?, Papaanastasiou wondered. ‘Oh, I believe plenty of people he’d argue with,’ said the Sergeant. ‘An irascible old… old person, in my experience, but I can’t think anyone would want to kill him.’
‘Ah, but my friend,’ replied Papaanastasiou, nodding wisely,‘somebody did.’
They went through the papers in the late Colonel’s desk, and the policeman endeavoured to catalogue what they found. Nothing of immediate interest turned up except an envelope marked for ‘Diogenes Panathenaikos’.
‘Seems to be for you. Probably your retainer. You johnnies must do pretty well for yourselves. You should try managing a wife and kids on my salary.’
Diogenes pocketed the envelope with a weak smile. Aconfirmed bachelor, he thought children, generally, an admirable idea, so long as they remained someone else’s responsibility. Later, when he was alone, he checked the contents of the envelope. Crudely written notes about marmalade and large sums of money. Was this the delicate matter? A shopping list? Was the Colonel intending to go into the wholesale grocery business? Diogenes felt he was hardly the man to consult. Could this have any connection with the murder? He would not share this with the police, not just yet. It was addressed to him, no doubt the Colonel had intended to explain it all, and it might not be connected with the case before them. He, Diogenes Papaanastasiou, would discover the meaning of it first.
With the butler’s laborious assistance, a list of those who were present in the house around the time of death was produced. It was a short list, containing six people. Three visitors were staying at the house, the late Colonel’s daughter Candida with her husband, and a business partner by the name of Ngaio Sayers. There were also three staff, the butler himself, a gardener, and a chauffeur named James.
‘Ah,’ declared the Sergeant, ‘it was the chauffeur who found the body I believe. We should speak to him first.’
The other employees were a farm manager, who lived in a separate cottage on the estate, but who was away in the north of England, and a cook, who came in daily, but had not arrived at the time.
‘Her name?’, asked the Sergeant, taking notes.
‘Cook, Mrs Cook.’
‘You don’t know her name?’
‘Margaret I think, but it don’t do fer a man in my position to be over familiar.’
‘But you don’t use her name?’
‘Oh, course we do. That’s ‘er, Margaret Cook. Good name, ain’t it. I used to know a chauffeur once called Jeffrey Driver.’
The sergeant agreed. ‘Sussex police used to have a PC Constable. And there’s that judge called Judge, Lord Justice Judge.’
‘Go on, yer’ll be tellin’ me next there’s a Lord Lord.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Of Grisebridge. I forgot him.’
‘Such silly names you English have, but please, we have a murder to solve.’
‘Makes you think though, doesn’t it?’ mused Sergeant Pillock. ‘Whether people turn out to match their names.’
‘Butler, can you find the chauffeur for us? Do you know where to find him?’
‘Hangin’ abaht somewhere like ‘e always does. Don’t do much else, that one.’
‘And perhaps,’ urged the tall man hopefully, ‘you might bring us a little snack. Do you have any marinated artichokes? Or perhaps coquilles st jacques, that would be nice.’
The butler looked at him impassively for a moment, and as he turned to go said ‘I’ll see if we got some crisps.’
As the butler left, the Sergeant spoke. ‘So. Theres a gardener, eh?’ For the sergeant he was immediately the principal suspect: the use of the shears, the force of the blow required, and luring the victim to the potting shed, all seemed to point in one direction. ‘He’s our man, Poppastanapasiou, you mark my words.’
Our hero was too canny a man to give way to any suspicion without evidence, and counselled cautious progress. They agreed on a sequence of interviews.
Shortly after, a mousy young man of perhaps 27 slipped quietly into the room. Questioned, he gave his name as James.
‘You have no family name?’
‘Sorry, it’s what everyone here calls me. Chumley. It was my mother’s name.’
‘You found the body, we understand. Can you tell us how it happened. What were you doing, why did you go to the potting shed?’
‘Well, no special reason. I like to look around, that’s all. Make sure things are in order. A shock, though, I can tell you, to see Old Blessme like that. Couldn’t see his face, but I knew straight away, his clothes and everything. Who do you think did it?’
‘That’s what we’re going to find out. Did you see anyone else at that time?’
’Oh, I see people, even when they don’t realize it. I can tell some tales about this place.’ As he spoke, James shifteduneasily in his seat, darting glances first at the policeman asking the questions and then at the silent gaunt figure of Papaanastasiou.
‘Go on.’
‘Did you know Old Blessme and Candida had a big row a few days ago? I heard them. She wanted money off him. Her husband is in debt up to his ears, and their business is failing. Now he has some crackpot scheme. Old Blessme wasn’t having any of it. Got really heated, they did. A real temper, her, and her sweet hubby, too.’
The bitterness in his tone as he related this didn’t escape Papaanastasiou, and he watched the young man’s face. There was something furtive about his manner. Was he trying to deflect attention from himself?
‘And another thing. You need to check what that gardener is up to when he thinks no one sees him.’
The Sergeant wrote briskly, licking his lips, pleased that their first interviewee seemed helpful. Papaanastasiou frowned, concerned about the man’s nervous behaviour, his avoidance of direct answers to questions, and wondering about his habit of lurking. Did he have something to hide?
As he made to leave the room, the chauffeur, in a manner too casual to be genuine, let slip another detail. ‘Something I did see might interest you. A car arriving early this morning, a black Vauxhall? Disappeared round the back of the house.’
He left, and shortly the butler reappeared. Papaanastasiou spoke, thoughtfully, addressing the butler. ‘He seems a quiet young man, James. Won’t have much driving to do with the Colonel dead?’
‘Never does,’ the butler replied. ‘Well, the Colonel, see, ‘e’d often drive hisself. Never ‘ad a bad word to say for James, though, even when he scraped the motor. Crashed it too, ‘e did. Not like with Candida there. Different when you got a daughter, I s’pose, innit?’ and he shuffled off on his errand to call her.
The couple arrived together, the daughter striding into the centre of the room and standing with her hands on her hips as if she owned the place. A woman of perhaps 40, with her hair tied back fiercely, she had a habit of narrowing her eyes when she spoke, as if assessing whoever she was talking to. Just behind her came her husband, adorned with a crew cut and Bermuda shorts, and a smile as wide as his shoulders. Offering a large hand somewhere vaguely between the two detectives, he spoke first. ‘Hi there. Wendell J. Terrapin III. Pleased to meet ya.’
Papaanastasiou replied ‘That is a fine name; the third … you are perhaps a king, or a chief of your people?’
Wendell J Terrapin III gave a hearty laugh. ‘Ya hear that, Candy, doll? Yessiree, I’m a king of industry, a chief of commerce. You are looking, sir, at the proud proprietor of Terrapin Industries, of Knoxville, Iowa. You know us?’Papaanastasiou admitted to having heard of Iowa.
‘Where were you this morning? Did you see or hear anythingunusual?’
‘Went for a walk after breakfast. The cook prepares it the night before, and that butler is supposed to serve it.’
‘Hmm,’ Papaanastasiou’s face assumed a dreamy expression,‘what did you have?’
‘Some malodorous fish, quite cold, looked and tasted like shoe leather,’ said Wendell. ‘They tell me it’s an English specialty, heaven help you.’
‘Kippers,’ added his wife. Papaanastasiou looked as though he considered it a gastronomic delight.
‘There was one thing,’ Candida continued. ‘A black car was leaving as we returned. About 10, I should think.’
The Sergeant was interested. ‘A Vauxhall?’
‘Oh, very likely, but I’m not good with cars.’
‘Now Mrs Terrapin – may I call you that? What can you tell us about your father?’
‘What do you want to know? Mumsie and Pops never kept in touch after the divorce. You know Pops could be a dreadful bore, and he really never knew how to behave with women. I haven’t seen Mumsie in five or six years; we send Christmas cards, that sort of thing.’
‘You live in America, I gather. Why visit now?’
‘Oh, you know, family duty, that sort of thing, pay the old respects now and then.’
‘No special reason? You weren’t close, then?’
‘Not close as in what you might call close, exactly. Mumsie and I left when I was about 8. I was an only child.’
The next to be interviewed was the butler.
‘Your name?’
‘Gardner, sir, Vladimir Ilyich Gardner. Bin with the family, man and boy, 65 year, I ‘ave. Knew the Colonel’s great aunt Agatha. That’s ‘er up over the mantle there.’ He waved a hand towards a gloomy brown portrait of an elderly lady with imposing bust and chin, glaring down upon them.
‘What did you do this morning? Tell us in your own words.’
‘Well, I done the breakfast by abaht 7:30. The Colonel, he likes to ‘ave his in the conservatory, which he done as usual. Then I did fer them others. And after that I was in me pantry, polishin’ orf the – I mean polishin’ the silver.’
‘I imagine it’s your job to attend to all the arrivals here. Would you know if anyone arrived unannounced?’
‘Well, now. I ain’t the young sprig as I used to be. I keeps meself to me duties, the best I can. I’m a professional, I am.’
‘So if a car arrived arrived early this morning?’
‘Can’t say as I saw no one arrivin’, but it’ll be that Frances. Nipped orf just before you got ‘ere, sir,’ nodding towards Papaanastasiou.
The sergeant looked up sharply, and muttered to the taller man, still sitting silently beside him, ‘Doing a runner, eh? Leaving the scene of the crime. That’s our man, Pasapopperstanio, we can be sure.’
The butler’s hearing was better than expected. ‘No, it ain’t.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘’Cause it’s – I mean she’s, a woman.’
‘Oh,’ said the Sergeant, a little disappointed. ‘Strong woman is she?’
The co-owner of the racehorses, Ngaio Sayers, proved to be a large tweedy lady with an imposing voice, who never strolled anywhere she could march. This time Papaanastasiou asked the questions.
‘Do you know if the Colonel had any enemies?’
‘Oh, not particularly.’
‘What do you mean “not particularly”? Were you friends?’
‘Good lord, man, nobody liked the old rascal.’
‘But you were a business partner. Would you say you had a good working relationship?’
‘That depends: it was an uneven partnership.’
‘How so?’
‘The colonel was too used to giving orders, didn’t want to recognize anyone else’s expertise, you know the type?’ Papaanastasiou knew the type well. ‘Didn’t like to be contradicted. Very fierce as an opponent.’
‘How do you come to be staying here?’
Sayers appeared to think for a moment. ‘Look here, I’m a trainer, it’s what I do, and I do it well, if I say so myself. I know stabling, I know training routines, I know jockeys and courses, I understand the animals and their ailments. Blessme was an admirer of horseflesh, and he liked his flutter on a race day, but he didn’t know his muzzle from his buttock. And now we have this filly, by Lincoln Jay out of Crystal Agate – very promising lineage, don’t you think?’ Papaanastasiou didn’t think about race horses much at all, and in answer merely made encouraging noises.
‘She’s shaping up a champion, the best we’ve had on our books, going to be a real winner over the next few years. Picked up her first win last month at Kempton. Well, Blessme insists on calling her Orange Peel. Ridiculous, she’s as black as they come, but I could let the man win on small things without a fight.’
‘So there were fights over other, bigger things?’
Sayers seemed keen to retract. ‘Oh, perhaps that’s going a bit far. A figure of speech. We had our little disagreements.’
‘But you remained business partners,’ insisted the tall man in a gentle tone. Sayers looked at him for a moment or two, at that bland, warm expression, and evidently decided to be direct.
‘Blessme was the money.’
Next came the gardener. At first glance he appeared young,but Papaanastasiou decided it was mere appearance, wide-eyed, mop-haired, and that he was probably no less than 34. He gave his name as Steven Lewis, which prompted the Sergeant to say to Papaanastasiou ‘Obviously an assumed name. Using the name of our headquarters, to throw us off the scent.’
‘But it’s my real name.’
The Sergeant pressed on. ‘Where were you between breakfast time and the discovery of the body?’
‘I – I think I was in the conservatory, yes, I was.’ The man glanced quickly from the Sergeant to our quiet hero.
‘You can’t remember that far back? This morning, while a murder was being done?’
‘No, I mean yes, I’m sorry. I was in the conservatory.’
‘Did anybody see you?’
Very hastily, the gardener replied, ‘No, no, of course not, I mean, why would they?’ and he gave a nervous chuckle.
‘Doing what?’
‘Tending the Colonel’s orange trees. He’s been trying to produce viable fruit.’
A little later, an appointment diary was found, but it contained very few entries. The one thing learnt from it was that the Colonel’s lawyer had called two days previously to work with him on his will. The Sergeant was pleased. ‘There’s your motive then, Papicockerspaniel. Straightforward, plain as the nose on my face.’ A glance at that face was enough to conclude that the motive must have been up there with the plainest of circumstances. ‘Find out who benefits, who’s lost out.’
It would take time, and the evening had drawn on. The two men considered their progress. The police doctor estimated the time of death as between 8 and 10 am, and the body had been discovered around 1. It was definitely the blow with the shears that killed him; it had been struck with a force thatsevered the spinal chord and a major artery. Death would have been almost instantaneous. Much blood had been lost, and the killer must surely have been sprayed with it. It should have been very visible, yet no one claimed to have seen it. If the killer departed by car, there must be traces in the vehicle: the Sergeant felt this one of the best lines to check.
The will also should be investigated. Papaanastasiou would check. Forensics had been over the murder site, but as Papaanastasiou remarked, ‘In my experience a murderer who leaves the weapon behind is unlikely to leave prints. In a case like this, it is the victim who is the key. When we understand well the character and business of the Colonel we shall find our killer.’
Had they made progress regarding possible suspects? Sayers, suggested the Sergeant, was a formidable figure. ‘Can’t imagine anyone having the upper hand there. Says a lot for the old boy that he got his way. They must have had some blazing rows.’
Papaanastasiou agreed. ‘She is not a woman with which one might be discreet, I think. Her views must be heard all over the estate.’
Then there was Candida, and her husband. Little love lost between her and the Colonel, it seemed, and a fierce argument very recently, to judge from the chauffeur’s words, which seemed to be confirmed by the butler. The gardener clearly had opportunity and had proved evasive, but no obvious motive emerged as yet. Despite the Sergeant’s first thoughts, he now thought ‘He doesn’t seem the type to me, somehow.’
‘I agree,’ thought Papaanastasiou, ‘how he seems not to have the, shall we say, forceableness in his character, but we do not know yet.’
‘That James is a queer lot, all his gossip, snooping around, and hardly drives. Got something to hide, that one,’ the Sergeant said. ‘But you would rule out the butler?’
‘My friend, I rule out nobody.’
‘Well, we still have to interview this Frances. Looks suspicious so far. How are we going to work this out?’
‘Method, my friend. Application of circumstance to the facts, or as I would express it more analytically,’ Papaanastasiou warmed to a well practised theme, ‘motive plus opportunity minus alibi over character plus evidence. That gives you a probability ratio, which will point most strongly to the guilty. You see what I mean?’
‘Not really, but I thought you said understanding the victim was the key.’
‘Well, that too.’
The best lead they had was the car, seen by at least two people. The Sergeant suggested they must call Frances for anurgent interview, after which he would somehow persuade her to give him a lift back into town, in order to scrutinize the vehicle.
‘I too shall make some investigation,’ stated our hero.
That night, having booked a room in a nearby inn, our detective mulled over the case. Opportunity? Any one of them might have done it, none had a strong alibi, and most might have motive. What other clues had arisen? Marmalade, orange peel, it seemed to keep coming back to that. What did it mean? When deep in thought, Papaanastasiou had a habit of swaying back and forth, the only time he stood straight, as though casting an invisible line out into a wide stream. How was marmalade made? By chopping and cooking oranges.Orange Peel? A chopped up champion racehorse would make a very expensive marmalade. What was it the butler had said? And then the gardener. He was clearly hiding something, and could hardly have been in the conservatory as he claimed, if the Colonel had his breakfast there. James the chauffeur had some interesting observations, but nothing added up. What was Frances doing there? He was getting nowhere, and began to wish he’d gone on that highland fishing trip instead of to Hastings.
In the lounge of the inn, looking for diversion, he saw a local paper. The usual inconsequential nonsense he thought: the headline news regaled him with the intriguing account of a week’s delay in the official opening of an extension to the sewage treatment works. Elsewhere he read of traffic accidents in which no one was hurt, and the retirement of a village postman. Papaanastasiou wondered to himself how people here stayed awake without an occasional murder. One item of political news caught his eye: an argument over funding for the cricket club, the council’s Sports and Leisure Committee insisting on women’s facilities. The Colonel, the club Secretary, must have been on the other side of that one.
The following afternoon, a day tripper at a loss for something to do in Bexhill-on-Sea might have spotted a tall stooping figure in a distinctive homburg with feathers in its band entering the doorway to Dreery, Maudlin and Tawdrey solicitors, and climbing its narrow stairwell. Within, Papaanastasiou was greeted by a gentleman who looked fully at home in the dingy grey interior, and seemed personally to exude the aromas of the fish shop below. With a dingy grey smile, he offered his visitor a hand to shake, as limp as one of the fish downstairs.
‘Ah, welcome, yes, welcome. Hubert Drabbe, solicitor. An honour, sir, an honour, such an honour.’
They entered a small room containing a desk of which it might be said not only that it had seen better days, but possibly better centuries, shelves of heavy law books and filing cabinets, where the only decoration was provided by a number of trophies.
Getting down to business, Papaanastasiou asked why the Colonel had sought assistance with his will. Had there been any significant change to the beneficiaries or bequests? Not really, said the solictor, just minor adjustments. The main reason was to update the account of his assets, something they had discussed many months previously.
‘When I drove over there last week, everything appeared so quiet, I couldn’t have dreamt this would happen. Most unfortunate, sir, most unfortunate. I suppose I can tell youabout the will, though it hasn’t been read yet, of course. The bulk of the property, the house and farmland, goes to the daughter; there is a large bequest to the chauffeur; the horses will become property of the trainer, Sayers, her name, I believe, Sayers. There are small amounts to the other staff.The only real change was to put much of his stocks and shares into trust for the benefit of the cricket club.’
Nothing about marmalade, then, thought Papaanastasiou.
‘Yes,’ continued the lawyer, ‘we act for the cricket club also.’
Was that a conflict of interest, our detective wondered.
‘Oh no, sir, no, not at all. There is no conflict. Only natural that we should be chosen by two such respectable clients. The firm of Dreery, Maudlin and Tawdrey is proud of its reputaton. Mind you,’ and at this the lawyer leant conspiratorially towards his visitor, ‘the name Dreery, Maudlin, Tawdrey and Drabbe has a finer ring to it, wouldn’t you say? I anticipate a change soon, yes soon, sir.’
It was agreed that he would attend the house on the coming Saturday for the reading of the will. Papaanastasiou nodded towards the trophies and enquired politely, ‘You don’t play now?’
‘Ah, sadly, sir, sadly,’ simpered the lawyer. ‘Not so agile, you know. My days of glory with leather and willow I fear are behind me, yes, behind. Nevertheless, I trust I may yet be of service to the game, sir. Our young players will know the meaning of Drabbe, indeed they will.’
Back in the Lodge the following morning the two men sat in the library to compare notes. Our tall, thin friend had a preliminary concern, and called for the butler. ‘Gardner!’
After a short wait a tousled head appeared and Steven Lewis asked ‘Yes?’
‘No, not you, that butler chappie.’ When the old retainer finally made an appearance, they explained that Frances was expected, and should be shown straight in. Meanwhile, perhaps a little snack? ‘Some bouillabaisse or even gazpacho would be nice.’
The butler looked at them as impassively as a butler should. ‘I think we got some cream crackers somewhere.’
As they waited the Sergeant had an awkward request. ‘Look here, I’m really sorry. I can’t get my tongue round this. Would you be insulted if I call you Papa for short? I mean, if you don’t mind, of course.’
‘My dear Pillock, please make so free. You will not be the first, and I am, you know,’ he smiled beningly down at the younger, smaller man, ‘quite old enough.’
‘What? Oh, I see.’
The older man looked pleased with himself. ‘It is a little joke. Now it is I who make the English joke.’
Frances arrived, and the interview proved interesting. Frances Frankenhoferthaler, a Liberal Party councillor, was vice chair of the county’s Sports and Leisure Committee, and the owner of a small flower shop in Haywards Heath.
The Sergeant had some questions for her. ‘Now, Miss Frothenhallerfather, you don’t mind if I call you that?’
‘I’d rather you called me Frances.’
‘Your car was seen leaving the Lodge on the day of the murder. What were you doing here?’
‘I was …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Er, ordering flowers for the shop.’
‘So you spoke with the Colonel? You had an appointment?’
‘Er, no, actually. I didn’t see him. I just saw that gardener fellow.’
‘Do you usually order flowers without the owner’s approval?’
Frances Frankenhoferthaler became confused. ‘Well, no, of course, I – I wanted to see what might be available before I approached him. Yes, that was it.’
‘And did you see anything out of the ordinary?’
‘No, everything seemed as it always was.’
As she left, Papaanastasiou asked the butler again for a snack.‘A little kleftiko, some ormitha macarounada?’
‘Couldn’t rightly say sir,’ replied the butler, as he shuffled towards the door with a small tray of used drinks glasses.
On an impulse, the tall man suggested, ‘Maybe some toast and marmalade?’
The butler stopped abruptly, dropped his tray, and without turning said ‘I believe we’ve run aht, sir.’
That evening, after a trip to Haywards Heath and back, the Sergeant reported to Papaanastasiou that there was no sign of any blood in Frankenhoferthaler’s car, nor of the interior having been cleaned for some considerable time. ‘You’d wish she had two cars, but I checked, and she hasn’t. And we ran all the names through records. Nothing much. That chauffeur has a number of driving offences, and the butler had a drunk and disorderly in Eastbourne some years ago. That’s about it.’
‘But that’s it, Pillock, that’s it.’ The tall man gave a little jig of delight, but declined to enlighten the Sergeant. ‘A little more, Sergeant, and all will be revealed. There is one thing you might do.’
On the Saturday morning visitors and staff assembled in the library for the reading of the will. They were behind schedule, and a nervous air of expectation revealed itself in an unusually subdued atmosphere. Papaanastasiou, meanwhile, was searching for his hat.
He was still searching, looking increasingly preoccupied, when the Sergeant approached him. ‘Any one of this lot might have done it, Papa, but you said you knew.’
‘Have patience, my friend. All shall be revealed, including, one hopes, my hat.’
‘Your what?’
‘A fine homburg with a specially hand-made fishing fly. Ithas, I fear, been stolen.’
‘Ah, I think you might ask the daughter.’
So he did. Had she seen an old hat?
‘A nasty old thing. Some fool left it on a chair in the library. Poor Wendell. There was some sort of hook hidden in it, disguised by some scraps of feather. Quite a job to remove it from his rear quarters. I had it thrown away. Time to start cleaning this old place up, that sort of thing.’ At this remark the unhealthy pallor of the tall detective’s face gave way to a shifting range of reds.
About that time, a taxi pulled up before the Lodge and disgorged the dingy grey figure of Hubert Drabbe.
It was show time. Papaanastasiou ceased to fiddle with his jacket, and took on a resolute air. He would, he announced, make clear to all what had happened. ‘There are many secrets in this house.’
He began with Lewis. ‘You pretend to be a gardener- ’
‘But I am.’
‘He is, actually, Papa, we checked.’
But our detective was in his stride, not to be deflected by minor interruptions. ‘Yet you say you never heard anything. You had the opportunity, no one would question your presence with a pair of shears, and who better to get the Colonel out in the potting shed. We question, and you are most nervous. I ask myself, what was this man hiding.’
‘Mrs Frankenhoferthaler, perhaps you can tell us. You keep coming here, why? Your black car was seen again that morning. You are a political rival of the poor Colonel. OldBlessme there was steadfastly opposed to women’s cricket, while you were campaigning for it. No, the real reason for your visits was your illicit liason with Mr Lewis there. You, a married woman. It wouldn’t do your political ambitions good for that to be known about.’
He turned to the next chair. ‘You, Ms Sayers. Always in hock to Old Blessme. The filly offered you a way out, if you could race her under your own name. For that you needed the Colonel, shall we say, forcibly retired. You are a determined woman, and cannot explain where you were at the time of the murder.’
‘And so we come to the loving daughter.’ Papaanastasiou made an effort to put the late homburg out of his mind. ‘Mrs Terrapin, you and your husband Wendell have considerable debts, as a result of failed businesses.’ Wendell had not sat down, and started forward, furious at this, but his wife calmedhim down. He made to sit beside her, but jumped up with a yelp as his rear made contact with the chair.
‘Yes,’ continued Papaaastasiou. ‘That little venture exporting skiing equipment to the Seychelles.’
‘An open market,’ protested Wendell. ‘Nobody doing it. Icould have cornered the market, just didn’t get the money for proper advertising.’
‘Then your fur farm.’
‘What’s wrong with that? Lemmings were a good idea. Was it my fault if they all decided to jump off a cliff?’
‘You needed money for a new manufacturing venture, but the Colonel refused to back you.’
‘A brilliant idea, wait and see. Nobody wants them yet, but in a few years everyone will be sticking little magnets on their icebox.’ A few indulgent smiles greeted this, and a chuckle or two. ‘You can laugh, but you’ll see,’ the American retorted angrily, ‘I’m right.’
‘But Mrs Terrapin, you were wrong when you told me you were an only child. This chauffeur, James. I ask myself why is this man kept on? He has little driving, and in that he is not good. But I have found the answer. You tell me you are Chumley, and then I find the former housekeeper Choll –mond -erley. Pronounced Chumley, isn’t it? Such silly names you English have. She left the house 27 years ago, and you were born soon after. You are the illegitimate son of Blessme, but the two of you kept it a secret.’
James looked defiant, but Candida’s hand went to her mouth in shock.
‘And now you, Gardner.’
‘What is it now?’ asked Steven Lewis, exasperatedly, ‘I thought we’d done.’
‘No, not you, this man,’ said Papaanastasiou, indicating the butler. ‘You are secretly a Bolshevik revolutionary, and you have waited for your chance to undermine the establishment for 60 years. And then you found a dark secret. You, an afficionado of blue films, recognized in one a man with his face concealed, licking marmalade from – well, we can spare the details. You recognized the marmalade, didn’t you, andyou attempted to blackmail the Colonel over his appearance in that film, but the Colonel objected, and sought my help.’
The Sergeant stood up sharply. ‘I knew it all along. It was the butler. Well, your game’s up now, sunshine.’
‘Not so fast, my friend, we are not finished, there is yet one more.’ And with that Papaanastasiou turned to the solicitor.‘We have been making the mistake. There were two black cars that morning, not one. You arrived early, but managed to leave without being seen. You, his bitter rival to be secretaryof the cricket club. No conflict of interest there, you say? Tell us, why did you come today by taxi? I rather think your car would show traces of blood. No, it was you, your insane lust for power which led to this.’
The lawyer attempted to spring to his feet, but, as we have heard, he was no longer so agile. ‘Poppycock, sir, poppycock. You have nothing upon which to base so foul a slur. Should you repeat it I shall without further notice issue an action for slander, sir, yes, for slander.’
‘Oh, I think we have something. A telephone call from the office of Bexhill Car and Canine Beauty Services reached me a short time ago. A black Vauxhall car still has not been cleaned. They are very slow, it seems.’
Mick Chatwin
Feb 2020
RETD.