Cyril Hare - Untimely Death aka He Should Have Died Hereafter

“That explains it. This man Tom was perfectly friendly until I mentioned that I was staying here, and then he shut up like a clam, and a very ugly clam at that. What was the trouble about?”

Mallett shook his head.

“It goes back a long way, I fancy,” he said. “I believe it began with a dispute over a will. There’s supposed to be money somewhere in the Gorman family, though Tom hasn’t anything, and there’s not much this end either. Have you met Jack Gorman, by the way?”

“Jack?”

“Your Mrs. Gorman’s husband-Joliffe’s son-in-law.”

“No. My wife only heard of his existence on Saturday. Indeed, we’d taken it for granted till then that Mrs. Gorman was a widow.”

“Oh, she’s married, all right. They say she-but look here, Mr. Pettigrew, I mustn’t waste any more time gossiping. I shall be late for lunch as it is, and my housekeeper won’t be pleased. I’ll be round to-morrow morning. Good-bye till then.”

“Did you have an interesting talk with Mr. Mallett about old times?” asked Eleanor, when she appeared with the tray for lunch.

“You didn’t bring Mallett here to talk about old times,” Pettigrew replied. “Now perhaps you’ll tell me how he knew what I wanted to talk about.”

“Well, dear,” Eleanor said gently, “you had two rather disturbed nights, and you have taken lately to talking in your sleep…”

So it was as simple as that! Pettigrew reflected as he attacked his lunch.

When he was small, Pettigrew used invariably to wake up early on hunting mornings. He would open his eyes to the early light of day with the consciousness that something extremely exciting and rather alarming was going to happen; and it would usually be some time before he was sufficiently wide awake to remember exactly what it was. On the morning succeeding Mallett’s visit, he found himself experiencing much the same symptoms. This time, however, he beguiled his waking moments by reflections that would not have occurred to him then. In particular, he found himself listening for what had roused him three days before- the sound of feet scraping on a lead roof. Presently he heard, not what he was waiting for, but the footfalls of someone walking quietly across the farmyard. Pettigrew told himself firmly that he had no business to spy on the private affairs of other people, but none the less found himself a moment later peering out of window. He was rewarded by the sight of nothing more inspiring than Mr. Joliffe walking from his own back door to his own garage.

Feeling rather ashamed of his vulgar curiosity, Pettigrew was about to get back into bed when as ill luck would have it, Mr. Joliffe looked up and saw him. If he was surprised at the sight he did not allow it to show on his serious features.

“Good morning, Mr. Pettigrew,” he said politely.

“Good morning,” answered Pettigrew, sincerely hoping that he would not wake Eleanor up. Then feeling that something more was demanded of him, he added rather pointlessly, “You’re up early, I see.”

Very gravely, Mr. Joliffe consulted his wrist-watch.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “A little before my usual time perhaps, but not much. There’s a lot to do before a shop opens, Tuesday mornings especially, we being closed on Mondays. But I dare say it’s early for you, Mr. Pettigrew. Were you looking for anything in particular?”

As Mr. Joliffe looked up at him with his expression of solemn enquiry, Pettigrew felt an insane desire to try the effect of saying, “I was looking to see whether a man would climb out of your daughter’s window.” But even as the thought passed through his mind, he wondered whether the remark would be such a shock to him after all. The eyes turned up in his direction were narrowed against the morning sun striking over the farmhouse roof. Perhaps it was this that gave an effect of slyness to the whole face which he had not seen there before. Whatever the reason, Pettigrew had the sudden feeling that there was some unacknowledged complicity between them.

“Don’t catch cold, Mr. Pettigrew,” said Mr. Joliffe quietly. “It’s a fine morning, but sharp-sharp.”

When Mallett drove up to the door of Sallowcombe, Eleanor surprised her husband by saying with unusual humility, “Would you mind very much if I came with you this morning?”

“Of course not,” Pettigrew murmured, in a tone that any experienced wife could interpret as meaning that he would. He had taken it for granted that this expedition was to be a strictly masculine affair, though he would have been hard put to it to find any logical reason for the assumption. Perhaps it was that so far as Eleanor was concerned he felt, if not ashamed, at least extremely sensitive about the whole business. It had put him in an embarrassing and undignified situation, which as between husband and wife was better passed over in silence. It was far easier to discuss it with an outsider like Mallett, who would look at it in the cold light of the professional observer. But how to convey all this in the presence of a third party at the very moment of departure?

“If I may venture to say so,” said Mallett, “I had rather taken it for granted that you would be of the party, madam. I have packed a snack for three.”

On the back seat of Mallett’s car, Pettigrew could see a vast picnic basket bulging at the seams. Remembering of old Mallett’s reputation as a trencherman, he realized that his idea of a snack for three would be hopelessly beyond the capacity of any four normal persons. He submitted with what he hoped was a good grace.

There was not room for more than two in the front of the car, and Eleanor shared the back seat with the picnic basket. Her plea that there was more room for her husband’s long legs in the seat beside the driver was perfectly true on the face of it, but the tactful way in which she thus indicated that her presence in the party was only on sufferance was not lost on Frank. It was, he reflected, characteristic of her that having captured the citadel she should allow the defeated garrison to march out with the full honours of war.

Once more, it was a beautiful day. The sun beat down between the high banks, crowned with beech hedges, that closed in the narrow road on either side. On just such a day Pettigrew could remember toiling on foot behind a wagonette drawn by two sweating horses up the incline which the car was now effortlessly climbing. He decided that in the interests of boys and beasts alike there was a lot to be said for progress after all. They overtook a police constable, pushing his bicycle up the hill, and sweating in his thick uniform almost as much as the horses had done; and he wished for his sake that progress could have gone a little further.

Mallett gave a friendly wave to the policeman as they passed, and then glanced at the clock on the dashboard before him. Pettigrew noticed a puzzled frown on his face.

“Is that clock right, Mr. Pettigrew?”

“I think so, yes. Is anything the matter?”

“Nothing the matter that I know of, sir. It’s a little odd, that’s all. Unless this clock’s wrong, which you tell me it isn’t, or unless the local Superintendent’s altered his timetable, which I don’t see why he should, that constable’s three-quarters of an hour early on his beat.”

“Oh,” said Pettigrew, for want of anything better to say.

“If you mean by that, sir, that it’s none of my business, I respectfully agree with you. It’s just habit, noticing these things, and-”

They had reached the junction with the new main road, the presence of which on the moor had distressed Pettigrew so much three days before. As Mallett slowed down before turning to the right, in the direction of Bolter’s Tussock, a car coming at great pace shot across their front from left to right. Mallett had to slam on his brakes abruptly to avoid a collision.