Алистер Маклин - The Satan Bug

“Cavell,” he said. He didn’t offer his hand, but opened the door wide and stood sideways to let us in. “I heard you were in Mordon. Must say I didn’t expect you out here though. I thought they asked me enough questions today as it was.”

“This is a pretty unofficial visit,” I assured him. “My wife, Chessingham. When I bring along my wife I leave the handcuffs at home.”

It wasn’t funny. He shook hands reluctantly with Mary and led us into an old-fashioned sitting-room with heavy Edwardian furniture, velvet drapes from ceiling to floor and a fire burning in a huge open fireplace. There were two people sitting in high-backed arm-chairs by the fire. One was a good-looking young girl of nineteen or twenty, slender, brown-haired and brown-eyed like Chessingham himself. His sister. The other, obviously, was his mother, but much older than I had expected his mother to be. A closer inspection showed that she wasn’t really so old, she just looked old. Her hair was white, her eyes had that curious glaze you sometimes see on old people who are coming to the end of their road, and the hands resting on her lap were thin and wrinkled and criss-crossed with blue veins. Not an old woman: a sick woman, a very sick woman, prematurely aged. But she sat very erect and there was a welcoming smile on her thin, rather aristocratic features.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cavell,” Chessingham said. “You’ve heard me speak of Mr. Cavell. My mother, my sister Stella.”

“How do you do, both of you?” Mrs. Chessingham had that assured direct no-nonsense voice that would have gone well with a Victorian drawing-room and a houseful of servants. She peered at Mary. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be, I’m afraid – but, my goodness, you are a beautiful girl. Come and sit beside me. How on earth did you manage it, Mr. Cavell?”

“I think she must have mistaken me for someone else,” I said.

“These things happen,” Mrs. Chessingham said precisely. For all their age, her eyes could still twinkle. She went on, “That was a dreadful thing that happened out at Mordon today, Mr. Cavell. Dreadful. I have been hearing all about it.” A pause, again the half-smile. “I hope you haven’t come to take Eric to jail already, Mr. Cavell. He hasn’t even had dinner yet. All this excitement, you know.”

“Your son’s only connection with this affair, Mrs. Chessingham, is that he is unfortunate enough to work in number one laboratory. Our only interest in him is his complete and final elimination as a suspect. Every narrowing of the field is an advancement of a kind.”

“He doesn’t have to be eliminated,” Mrs. Chessingham said with some asperity. “Eric has nothing to do with it. The idea is ridiculous.”

“Of course. You know that, I know that, but Superintendent Hardanger, who is in charge of investigations, doesn’t know that. All statements must be checked, no matter how unnecessary the checking. I had a great deal of difficulty in persuading the superintendent that I should come instead of one of his own officers.” I saw Mary’s eyes widen but she recovered herself quickly.

“And why did you do that, Mr. Cavell?” I was beginning to feel sorry for young Chessingham, he must have felt foolish and ineffectual with his mother taking command in this fashion.

“Because I know your son. The police don’t. Saves seventy-five per cent of the questioning straight away. And Special Branch detectives can ask a great number of brutal and unnecessary questions in a case like this.”

“I don’t doubt it. Nor do I doubt that you could be as ruthless as any man I’ve ever known if the occasion arose. But I know you won’t on this occasion.” She sighed and shifted her hands to the arms of her chair. “I hope you will excuse me. I am an old woman and not very well and so I have some privileges – dinner in bed is one.” She turned and smiled at Mary. “I’d like to talk to you, my child. I have so few callers – I make the most of them. Would you like to help me negotiate those dreadful stairs while Stella sees to the dinner?”

When we were alone Chessingham said: “Sorry about Mother. She does tend–”

“I think she’s a wonderful woman. No need to apologise.” His face lightened a little at that. “About your statement. You said you were at home all night. Mother and sister will of course vouch for that?”

“Of course.” He smiled. “They’d vouch for it whether I was at home or not.”

“I’d be surprised if they wouldn’t, after seeing them,” I nodded. “Your mother could say anything and she would be believed. Not your sister. She’s young and inexperienced and any competent policeman could break her down inside five minutes. If you were in any way involved, you’re too smart not to see that, so your story has to be true. Can they vouch for the entire night – up to eleven-fifteen, say?”

“No.” He frowned. “Stella went to bed about ten-thirty. After that I spent a couple of hours on the roof.”

“Chessingham’s observatory? I’ve heard of it. No one can prove you were up there?”

“No.” He frowned again, thinking. “Does it matter? I haven’t even a bicycle and there’s no public transport at that time of night. If I was here after ten-thirty I couldn’t have made it to Mordon by eleven-fifteen anyway. Four and a half miles, you know.”

“Do you know how the crime was carried out?” I asked. “I mean have you heard? By someone making a diversion to allow someone else to cut through the fences. The red herring got away in a Bedford van stolen from Alfringham.”

“I’d heard something like that. The police weren’t very communicative, but rumours get around.”

“Did you know that the van was found abandoned only one hundred and fifty yards from your house?”

“A hundred and fifty yards!” He seemed genuinely startled, then stared moodily into the fire. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

He thought briefly, then grinned. “I’m not as smart as you think. It’s not bad, it’s good. If I were driving that van I’d have had to go to Alfringham first for it – after leaving here at ten-thirty. Also, if I were the driver, then I obviously couldn’t have gone to Mordon – I’d have been making my supposed getaway. Thirdly, I wouldn’t have been so damned stupid as to park it at my front door. Fourthly, I can’t drive.”

“That’s pretty conclusive,” I admitted.

“I can make it even more conclusive,” he said excitedly. “Lord, I’m not thinking at all tonight. Come up to the observatory.”

We went up the stairs. We passed a door on the first floor and I could hear the subdued murmur of voices. Mrs. Chessingham and Mary talking. A Slingsby ladder led us up into a square hut affair built in the centre of the flat roof. One end of the hut was blanked off with plywood, an entrance covered by a hanging curtain. At the other end was a surprisingly large reflector telescope set in a perspex cupola.

“My only hobby,” Chessingham said. The strain had left his face to be replaced by the eager excitement of the enthusiast. “I’m a member of the British Astronomical Association, Jupiter Section, and a regular correspondent for a couple of astronomical journals – some of them depend almost exclusively on the work of amateurs like myself – and I can tell you that there’s nothing less amateurish than an amateur astronomer who’s been well and truly bitten by the bug. I wasn’t in bed till almost two o’clock this morning – I was making a series of photographs for The Astronomical Monthly of the Red Spot in Jupiter and the satellite Io occulting its own shadow.” He was smiling broadly in his relief now. “Here’s the letter commissioning me to do them – they’ve been pleased with some other stuff I’ve sent in.”