Sgt Beef - Case Without A Corpse Part 24

As though hypnotized, the small servant backed into the hall, and we followed her. She showed us, without speaking, into a draughty drawing-room without a fire in it, and disappeared. I glanced about me at the crowded but chilly display of ornamental china, and shuddered.

But the Rector soon entered, and to our relief we found that he had none of the rowdy egotism of the Vicar of Chopley. He was a little lean, rather unwashed-looking man, with half an inch of underclothing showing below his cuff at either wrist. But he had a conciliatory smile, and a manner of speaking at once jerky and ingratiating.

I understand, he said, that you represent Scotland Yard. Wish to ask me some questions?

That's so, said Stute. I want to ask you about a man called Freeman.

Freeman? Do you mean my Curate? Really, how very disagreeable. Has he been guilty of some misdemeanour? I have always refused to listen to the rumours there have been. ...

No, no, said Stute, impatiently.

I was reminded of Beef'sreflections that morning. You never know what you're going to find out about anyone he said. But I made no remark.

No, sir, Stute went on, not your curate. A man called Freeman and his wife who lived here about two years and three months ago. He occupied, I understand, the Old Cottage in your parish.

The Rector smiled nervously.

Oh you mean Mr. Hugo Freeman. Why yes, to be sure. Charming people. But surely. ... he suddenly grew serious..

The supposition is, explained Stute, that this man Freeman may have been murdered.

Murdered, eh? Dear, dear. Well I never. That's bad. Delightful people, too. Look here, we can't stand talking here. Come along into the study. We were just going to have tea. My wife will be most interested. That is, distressed. Come along. Give me your coats. Poor Freeman. Well, well. In the midst of life. This way, please.

He led us through the tiled hall, and opened a door beyond it. I was delighted at the prospect of a cup of tea, and gladly entered the study.

If the drawing-room had been cold, this was in distinct contrast. I can only describe it as stuffy. It was a small room, over-furnished, and a bright fire lit its grate. I could see no less than three cats, and had reason to suppose that there were more. In an arm-chair by the fire the Rector's wife was sitting and replaced a piece of b.u.t.tered crumpet on her plate before greeting us. She was a big blowsy woman with untidy hair, and a voice like a man's.

My dear, began the Rector, from Scotland Yard. Inspector Stute. Mr. Townsend. It's about poor Freeman.

The Rector's wife sat up, too startled to acknowledge the informal introduction. You know what I always told you, she said loudly. You ought never to have given him so much liberty. ...

No, no, my dear. Not Freeman. Hugo Freeman. At the Old Cottage, you remember Poor fellow. It appears he's been murdered.

Oh, said his wife, evidently relieved, I thought you meant Freeman. Do sit down Inspector. I'll ring for some fresh tea. Murdered' you say? (Get down, will you, Tibbits. You shall have your milk presently.) How very, very terrible. They were such nice people.

Stute, gratefully eating bread and b.u.t.ter seemed content to let the talk take its own course.

The Rector went on. Yes, charming folk. Just retired, so I understood. Business for many years in Liverpool. Accountancy, I believe. Most wearing. I'm no good at figures. And they hoped to settle here. Pity, now, they didn't. Such a quiet parish. But plenty to do, he added, hurriedly, plenty to do.

My husband works much too hard. I always tell him he's too conscientious. He'll wear himself out. But about Mr. Freeman. I wonder who could have murdered him. Ah, here's your tea. Two lumps. And you, Mr. Townsend? So you're investigating the case, Inspector?

Well, it's not quite as simple as that. We don't know that Freeman has been murdered. But he's disappeared.

There, there. Poor fellow, said the Rector. Such a good chap. So generous. Only had to ask him. Do anything for the church. How was he murdered? Oh, you don't know of course. Try that cake, do.

I was wondering, managed Stute, whether you could help us.

Delighted, murmured the Rector mechanically, anything I can do.

Do you know where he had come from when he got here?

Where was it, my dear? Liverpool, wasn't it? Or Birmingham?

Manchester, I rather think, said his wife.

One of those places, anyway, summarized the Rector.

And what did you say had been his profession?

He had just retired when he got here. Accountancy. Estate Agent. Something of the sort. I forget the details. But he had substantial means.

Quite. And while he was here?

Exemplary. A splendid parishioner. Regularly at church. Helping hand. A charming . man.

And after he had gone?

We never heard from them. Most disappointing. But people are like that. My wife was hurt at first.

Well, it was rather rude, said the Rector's wife.

Didn't you write to them?

They forgot to leave their address. And the post office never had it, either. They had to return several letters, I understand. Chiefly circulars, Brown said. Brown's our postmaster. Long-headed chap.

So you've no idea where the Freemans went?

They hadn't decided. They were going to put their furniture into store, they said. Have a holiday. Poor souls, they'd never been abroad.

You mean they went abroad from here?

Yes. To France.

How did you know they went to France?

They told me so. Besides, I signed their application for a pa.s.sport.

Stute was silent a moment, staring fixedly at the nervous Rector.

You remember that? he asked at last.

Indeed I do. Freeman was smiling over it. A man of his age who had never needed a pa.s.sport. Poor chap! His pa.s.sport's for Another Place now. But that one is in order, I'm sure.

Have some more cake? said his wife.

And what countries was it made out for?

France. Only France. I remember that. I remarked on it at the time.