Patricia Wentworth - The Blind Side

“No, I didn’t-nobody couldn’t down in that basement.”

“And you didn’t leave the basement?”

“Not before a quarter to six I didn’t. I work I do, and when I go to bed I go to sleep.”

“So do I,” said the Inspector heartily. “Now I want to know about the outer door of this place.”

“Anything wrong with that?”

“No, no. But you lock it up at night, I suppose?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What time do you lock up?”

“Eleven o’clock.”

“And if anyone wants to get in after that?”

“Those that lives here has their keys.”

“The door isn’t bolted?”

“Of course it ain’t!”

“And what time do you open up in the morning?”

“Six o’clock mostly.”

“Now, sergeant-this is very important. You locked up last night as usual?”

“Eleven o’clock I locked up.”

“And after you locked up no one could get in without a key?”

“I told you that.”

“And when you came to open up at six o’clock this morning the door was locked as you left it?”

“Putting words into my mouth, aren’t you? What’s the game? Want to get me telling lies and catch me out? Because you won’t! See? To start with, it was a good bit before six when I come to open up this morning, and to get on with, the door wasn’t locked-it was on the jar.”

The Inspector leaned forward with a hand on either knee.

“The door was open?”

“No, it wasn’t-it was on the jar, like I said.”

“It had been unlocked?”

“Seemingly.”

“But you’re certain you locked it?”

“When it comes to the proper place I’ll be taking my Bible oath I locked it.”

The Inspector leaned back again.

“If someone wanted to go out after you locked the place up, could they shut that door without being heard?”

A grim smile appeared on Rush’s face.

“You’d better ask Mr. Pyne in number one about that. Ten years he’s been complaining about the noise that door makes when it shuts.”

“Then if anyone wanted to come or go without being heard, they probably wouldn’t risk shutting that door. They would, in fact, be inclined to leave it as you found it, on the jar?”

Rust grunted.

“None of my business what they’d do. I locked up, and that I’ll swear to.”

Detective Abbott wrote this down. The Inspector looked round at him, said, “I’m taking a list of the flat-holders-get it down on a separate sheet so I can have it handy,” and turned to Rush again.

“Now, sergeant, just give me all those flats from A to Z.”

“They don’t run no more than one to twelve,” said Rush, with his scowl at its blackest.

The Inspector was not to be moved from his good humour.

“Well, let’s have ’em from one to twelve,” he said easily.

Stiffly erect, Rush ticked them off.

“Number one-that’s Mr. Pyne. Want me to tell you about ’em as we go along?”

“If there’s anything to tell.”

“They’re people,” said Rush. “Always something to tell about people, only it don’t always get told.”

Here at last was a subject on which he would be willing to talk. Lee Fenton could have told the Inspector that.

“Well, Mr. Pyne, he’s in number one-old bachelor as thinks himself an invalid-nothing to do but plan whether it’s a pill or a powder he’d best be taking next. He’s here all the time-bin here ten years. Number two’s Mrs. and Miss Tatterley-went away a week ago. Ladies they are. And number three is the two Miss Holdsworths-and they’re away-bin away since the beginning of July. And that’s the first floor.

“Then second floor. Number five is Mr. and Mrs. Connell-he’s a chartered accountant he is, and she’s a bit of a girl. They’re gone hiking they have-bin away two days. And number four, that’s Miss Lemoine-and she’s gone away with old Lady Trent out of number six-gone abroad. So that finishes the second floor.

“The third floor’s all Craddocks-Miss Lucy Craddock in number seven, Mr. Ross in here, and Mr. Peter Renshaw in number nine that was Miss Mary Craddock’s flat until she died three weeks ago. And Miss Lucy, she went off on a foreign cruise yesterday evening, and Miss Lee Fenton she come in with her aunt’s key, so it’s her that’s in number seven now.”

“Miss Fenton came in last night?”

“Round about seven-thirty it would be, and Miss Lucy’d bin gone some time, and Miss Lee Fenton she’d got her aunt’s key-met her at the station, she said, and come in to stay till Miss Lucy gets back. And Mr. Renshaw, he’s settling up Miss Lucy’s affairs. Army officer he is, and Miss Mary’s executor. That’s the third floor.

“Fourth floor. Potters have ten and eleven-Mr. and Mrs. in eleven, governess and three children in ten. They went off to the sea first of August. Number twelve’s Miss Bingham. She got back day before yesterday, and we could have done without her. Prying old maid-that’s what she is.”

Detective Abbott wrote that down. It occurred to him that a prying old maid might very well be the answer to a policeman’s prayer.

Rush was giving particulars about Mrs. Green, the charwoman. She hadn’t been with them very long, not above three months, when she took over from old Mrs. Postlethwaite who’d had the job for fifteen years. No, she didn’t sleep in. She did her work-he wasn’t going to say how she did it. Women weren’t a morsel of good at their work so far as his opinion went. She’d gone off with a bad turn last night, and he didn’t expect to see her, not before the afternoon, if then.

“Drink?” enquired the Inspector.

Rush shook a gloomy head.

“A silly, peter-grievous female,” he pronounced.

The Inspector enquired whether she would have a key to the front door, and was told certainly not.

“Well, that’s Mrs. Green. Now what other service was there in the house? All these flats-who looks after them? You and Mrs. Green don’t do it all?”

Rush scowled.

“Inside the flats is none of my job, except for Mr. Pyne that I made an arrangement with and many’s a time I’ve wished I hadn’t. One of the sort you can’t please, he is.”

“Well, what do the other people do?”

“Some of them does for themselves, like Miss Craddock, and Mrs. Connell, and the Miss Holdsworths, and Miss Bingham. And some of them has daily help, like Lady Trent and the Potters, but they’re away, and when they’re away the helps don’t come-and I see to it that they hands in their keys, for I won’t be responsible without.”

“Very sound,” said the Inspector.

Rush was dismissed.

In Lucy Craddock’s sitting-room Peter Renshaw stood on the black woolly rug before the empty fireplace and mapped out a plan of campaign. Lee, sitting on the arm of the largest chair, was looking, not at him, but out of the window at a patch of hot, hazy sky. There was a very much worn Brussels carpet on the floor, its original tints of mustard and strong pink now mercifully merged in a general shabbiness. The walls, like those in No. 9, were completely covered with pictures-water colours, etchings, photographic enlargements, and a family portrait or two in oils. There were at least six small tables as well as an upright piano, and a good many unnecessary small chairs. The top of the piano was quite covered with photographs in silver frames.

“It’ll be perfectly all right if we keep our heads,” said Peter in his most dogmatic voice.

Lee looked round at him. It was rather an odd look.

“Oh, Peter dear,” she said, and there was a pitying sound in the words. It was as if she was much older since the yesterdays when they used to quarrel. She felt old, and sad, and tolerant, and wise, and very sorry for Peter, because she couldn’t see any way out of this without somebody being hurt, and she was afraid, not for herself, but for him.