Hand In Glove Part 18

TWENTY-ONE.

Derek reached Rye shortly before noon. Stung by Colin's scornful remarks, he had decided to approach Beatrix Abberley's housekeeper in an attempt to learn whether she was holding back any vital information. He did not think it likely, but at least the exercise would prove he was still trying to do something on his brother's behalf.

At Colin's request, Albion Dredge had sent Derek copies of the statements made by the prosecution witnesses. These had included their addresses, in Mrs Mentiply's case The Dunes, New Road, Rye.

The name had led Derek to expect a seaside setting, but the reality was stubbornly landlocked. The Dunes was a hedge-shrouded bungalow on the eastern outskirts of the town, whose only hint of the ocean was a bedraggled seagull perched on the apex of the roof.

Derek opened and closed the creaky front gate in a furtive manner which he knew would arouse the suspicion of anybody watching from the house but which he was powerless to control. He would have given a great deal to be able to turn back there and then, but the recollection of Colin's sneering expression drove him on to the sunburst front door and a reluctant stab at the bell-push.

Two loud rings brought no response. Squinting through the frosted gla.s.s, Derek could see nothing beyond a blurred and empty hallway. Mrs Mentiply was clearly not at home. He would have to try again later-or abandon the whole idea. He turned to go. Only to pull up instantly at the sight of a man watching him from the corner of the house.

"Oh!" said Derek. "h.e.l.lo."

The man nodded. He was a thin, grey, mournful-looking fellow in a tattered warehouse coat. Both the coat and his hands were smeared with dirty oil. In one hand he held a spanner, in the other a cigarette.

"Er . . . I was looking for Mrs Mentiply."

"The Missus is at church."

"Ah. When is she likely to be back?"

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"When the vicar runs out of things to say. But what do you want with her?"

"Well . . . Mr Mentiply . . . I . . ." Derek moved towards the man, smiling nervously. "My name's Derek Fairfax."

"Fairfax? No relation to the b.u.g.g.e.r they got for doing in Miss Abberley?"

"My brother, actually."

"Is that a fact?" Mentiply grinned mirthlessly. "Well, the Missus won't thank you for dropping by, I can tell you. She worshipped the old girl."

"I only wanted to ask her a few questions."

"What about?"

"About whether anything unusual happened in the weeks prior to Miss Abberley's death."

"Anything not involving your brother, you mean?"

"Well . . . Yes."

Mentiply took a drag on his cigarette and coughed expectorantly.

"You can wait for her if you like."

"Thanks."

"But you're wasting your time." With that, he turned on his heel and vanished from sight.

Belatedly, Derek realized he was meant to wait on the doorstep, not inside. After shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other for a minute or so, he made his way to the corner of the house. There was a garage between it and the boundary hedge, at the end of a cinder track. A battered old car was standing half in and half out of the garage, with its bonnet raised and Mentiply stooped over its filth-encrusted engine. Derek walked up to him.

"Still here?"

"Yes. I thought . . . since your wife's not back yet . . ."

"You thought what?"

"Well, perhaps you know something."

"About Miss Abberley and her high-and-mighty family? What would the likes of me know?"

"I believe my brother's innocent, you see."

"Do you? That's nice for him."

"It's the week or so after his visit to Jackdaw Cottage on the twentieth of May I'm particularly interested in. It's possible something happened during that period to worry Miss Abberley-something which could hold a clue to the ident.i.ty of her murderer."

H A N D I N G L O V E.

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"Doesn't your brother know who he hired to do it, then?"

"He didn't hire anybody."

"No?" Mentiply abruptly gave up trying to shift a stubborn nut with a muttered, "Sod the thing," and stood upright, wiping his oily hands in an equally oily rag. "Are you just shooting a line, son? Why that week especially?"

Mentiply's sarcasm about the Abberleys and his sudden curiosity heartened Derek. "Because Miss Abberley telephoned my brother a week or so after his visit and said she accepted he hadn't called on her under false pretences."

"Says who?"

"The point is, Mr Mentiply, did something happen? Your wife might know without being aware of it."

"Doubtful." He frowned. "Would that week have included the bank holiday?"

"Er . . . Yes. Yes, it would have. The last Monday in May. Why?"

"Oh . . . Nothing."

Derek willed himself to stay silent. It was the best way to encourage Mentiply to say more.

"Except . . ." He scratched his chin. "Funny, really. It was on the bank holiday. The pub was open all day. That's how I remember. I'd seen him before, a couple of times, when Maurice condescended to pop round for a word with the Missus. But he'd been fired long since, I was told, and he certainly didn't come from round here. So, it was odd. And it was him all right. I'd recognize him even without his uniform."

"Recognize who?"

Mentiply took a last draw on his cigarette, then flicked the b.u.t.t past Derek's chin on to the cinder track. "Maurice Abberley's chauffeur.

Used to drive him down here in his I'm-rich-and-you're-not Bentley.

Until he was given the order of the boot, some time last winter. Too fond of the bottle to drive for a living, according to the Missus. I suppose that tallies with where I saw him. Public bar of the Greyhound, bank holiday Monday afternoon."

"What was he doing there?"

"Drinking."

"In Rye, I mean."

"Couldn't tell you."

"Didn't you ask?"

"Oh, I asked. But he pretended he didn't know me from Adam. De - nied being Maurice's chauffeur. Denied being anybody's chauffeur.

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Suggested I was too pie-eyed to recognize my own mother. b.l.o.o.d.y nerve!"

"It does seem strange. What's his name?"

Mentiply frowned. "Can't for the life of me remember. Couldn't at the time. If I had, I wouldn't have let him get away with it so easily. What beats me is-" He broke off at the sound of the gate being opened. "That'll be the Missus," he said. "Avril!"

Mrs Mentiply materialized at the corner of the house, plump and matronly in her Sunday best.

"Oh!" she said. "You've got a visitor, I see."

"No. You have. Name of Derek Fairfax."

"Yes." Derek smiled awkwardly. "I . . . er . . . I'm Colin Fairfax's brother."

Mrs Mentiply coloured ominously. "Then you're not welcome here." She glared at her husband. "I should have thought that was obvious."

"Don't take on, Avril. I've just been trying to remember the name of Maurice's chauffeur. The one he sacked for drunkenness."

"Why do you want to know?"

"To help out this young fellow."

"Help him out? I can't imagine what you're thinking of, Arnold, I really can't. As for you, Mr Fairfax-"

"I'm sorry," put in Derek. "This is all my fault. Why don't we-"

"Spicer!" exclaimed Mentiply. "That was the b.u.g.g.e.r's mon-icker." He grinned triumphantly at Derek. "Mr Spicer, as Miss Abberley would have called him."

CHAPTER.

TWENTY-TWO.

Maurice's car was parked at a boldly nonchalant angle in front of the hotel. What its owner might be doing there Charlotte could not imagine. Suddenly, her thoughts were plucked away from Frank Griffith's sombre reminiscences and deposited in the here and now of difficult questions and side-stepped H A N D I N G L O V E.

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doubts. She had antic.i.p.ated having to explain herself to Emerson, but Maurice's presence posed additional problems which transformed a delicate task into a formidable one.

They were in the lounge, relaxing over pre-lunch drinks. Neither displayed any sign of anxiety. Indeed, as Charlotte entered the room, they were laughing uproariously, like two old friends exchanging a joke. Then they saw her.

"Charlie!" said Maurice, jumping to his feet. "We were beginning to worry about you."

"There was no need."

"I expect you're wondering what I'm doing here, aren't you?"

"Well . . ."

"I phoned him last night," put in Emerson. "Thought I ought to bring him up to date."

"And I decided to join you here," said Maurice with a grin.

"I was going to tell you this morning," Emerson continued. "But you'd already gone by the time I came down for breakfast."

"I left a note for you."

"By which we're both greatly intrigued." Maurice's grin declined into the faintest of smiles. "What did this Griffith fellow have to say for himself ?"

"Quite a lot. Everything we wanted to know, in one sense."

"Does he have the letters?" asked Emerson.

"No. Not any more. Why don't I explain over lunch?"

"Do put us out of our misery first," said Maurice. "What has he done with them?"

"He destroyed them. At Beatrix's request."