Cyril Hare - Untimely Death aka He Should Have Died Hereafter

Pettigrew cleared his throat self-consciously. “Quite so. Go on,” he said.

“As I see it, he decided that it would be rather awkward if the police were told that Jack had been found on Bolter’s Tussock on Saturday when they had found him miles away on Tuesday. They might go and look at Bolter’s Tussock to make sure, and find something-bloodstains perhaps, or a button off his coat. Then they would start making the sort of enquiries which, in the end, I made. But if they found him on Bolter’s Tussock on Tuesday before you had made any report to them-”

“-they would conclude that I was one of the imbeciles who always come forward to distract the police with imaginary stories as soon as they read about anything of this kind in the papers. Really, Mr. Mallett, there is something rather diabolical about this man Joliffe. Is there any good thing to be said about him?”

“Well, sir, to give him his due, I think he is really devoted to his little granddaughters. As Mrs. Gorman said in court, the whole of this business was devised to get the inheritance for them. I think the bitterest blow for him must be that as soon as she tumbled to what he had done she left him and took the children with her. One could almost feel sorry for him over that. He’s a very lonely man just now.”

“I refuse to pity him. Isn’t he courting Louisa Gorman at Minster Tracy? She must be a lonely woman. They can console each other.”

“No, sir. You’re forgetting what Miss Green way told us this afternoon. That affair seems to have fizzled out now.”

For a time it seemed that the conversation also had fizzled out. In the silence that followed Pettigrew jettisoned the butt of his cigar, and recharged Mallett’s glass and his own.

“Aren’t we running our heads against a brick wall?” he said at last. “Doesn’t all the evidence point to accidental death?”

“I won’t settle for accident until I can be sure of the kind of accident it was,” said Mallett stubbornly. “And there’s another thing, Mr. Pettigrew. This accident happened a deal too conveniently to satisfy me. He had only to live one day more for his daughters to come into all Gilbert’s money. Don’t tell me it was coincidence that he died when he did.”

In that moment revelation came to Francis Pettigrew.

“Of course not!” he said. “You are perfectly right- it wasn’t coincidence at all. I can see the whole thing now. Our whole trouble has been that we’ve been looking at this case from the wrong end. Look at it from the proper end and it sticks out a mile. Don’t you see, Mallett? The reason why we haven’t got the right answer is that we’ve never asked the right question!”

And he proceeded to ask the right question and to supply the answer to it with emphasis and elaboration.

Mallett had never been an emotional man-members of his profession cannot afford to be-and with increasing age his manner had become calmer and quieter than ever. He listened to Pettigrew’s excited harangue with an air of no more than interested attention. When it was over he took time to refill and light his pipe. Then he said:

“You know, Mr. Pettigrew, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you were right. In fact, I think I’d be prepared to go so far as to say outright that you are right. As you say, once you look at the case from the proper angle all the probabilities point that way. It’s a pity that we shall never be able to prove it, but at least you have the satisfaction of knowing the answer.”

“Don’t be so dismal,” said Pettigrew. “In any case, it’s not for us to prove anything. That’s up to Parkinson and his merry men.”

“Suppose I can persuade Mr. Parkinson to start this enquiry all over again from a new standpoint, do you suppose there’ll be any evidence left after all this time?”

“Nobody can tell that till the evidence is looked for. There are some kinds of evidence that are indestructible. With any luck this will be.”

“Let’s hope so. I’ve got to persuade Inspector Parkinson, and Parkinson’s got to persuade his Chief. Then if the preliminary enquiries indicate that we’re on the right track, the Chief’s got to persuade the Home Office. It will all take time, and the first stage will be the longest, I fancy. If there’s nothing to show at the end of it, my name will be mud.” He drained his glass and stood up. “And now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Pettigrew, I think it is time I went to bed. It has been a most rewarding evening and I’m very grateful to you for all you’ve done. If only-”

“Yes?”

“If only I could get an answer to that other problem that was troubling us, then I should really know we were on the right lines.”

“I’m in a generous mood,” said Pettigrew. “I’ll answer that one for you too. Or rather, I’ll tell you where to find the answer. It’s in your library. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes-or is it The Memoirs? Look it up when you get home-you’ll recognise it easily enough.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” repeated Mallett. “I won’t forget. Good night, sir, and thank you.”

About the middle of June, Pettigrew received a letter from Exmoor:

“Dear Mr. Pettigrew,

I thought you would be interested to know-the baby was born yesterday, and it’s a boy. Dick Gorman rang me up to tell me, and I’m glad to say he’s taken the news very well. I have Doreen and Beryl staying at Sunbeam while their mother is in hospital-did I tell you, my housekeeper was stepsister to Bob Gorman, Jack’s third cousin, who lives at Combe Martin, so she is really one of the family?-and they are thrilled at having a brother. I expect they will be here another two or three weeks, when they will go to join their mother at Tracy Grange. It would give me very great pleasure if you and your good lady could come to spend a week here next month, after they have gone. The country should be looking very pretty then, and with no hunting going on, there won’t be so many visitors about. I may say I have at last persuaded Mr. Parkinson to look into the matters we discussed the last time we met, and there may be some interesting developments shortly. Looking forward to seeing you,

I am,

Yours respectfully,

J. Mallett.

PS. I have looked up the Sherlock Holmes story you were thinking of. I am sure you are right, but it seems to be altogether too late to do anything about that now.”

Owing to various difficulties and delays, it was not until nearly the end of July that the Pettigrews were able to accept Mallett’s invitation. On the evening of their arrival, they found him in his sitting-room contemplating three silver porringers, four silver mugs and half a dozen spoons of different shapes and sizes, alike only in their emphatic ugliness.

“It’s the christening to-morrow,” he explained. “Mrs. Gorman’s asked me to be a godfather. Odd, isn’t it, considering that I nearly disinherited her, but she said that if it hadn’t been for me she would never have known the truth about Jack, and by way of showing her gratitude she’d like to make me responsible for his son. Can you understand how women’s minds work, Mrs. Pettigrew?”

Eleanor, contemplating the fearsome array of silver, murmured that she found men’s minds also a little difficult to understand sometimes.

“I wish you’d help me, ma’am,” said Mallett. “I’ve been so busy with other things that the matter of a present went clean out of my mind, and I got these in on appro at the last moment. Which shall I have?”

Tactfully Eleanor steered Mallett’s choice in the direction of the plainest and least offensive of the mugs, and then they became free to talk of other things.

The christening was fixed for half-past three, with tea at the Grange to follow. Mallett was taking his housekeeper to the service and proposed that his guests should accompany them. Pettigrew was quite prepared to go, but Eleanor, unhappy in the knowledge that her holiday clothes would not stand up to the full finery of the Gorman clan on a state occasion, protested vigorously that outsiders would not be welcome. Eventually it was arranged by way of a compromise that they should accompany Mallett to Minster Tracy, but spend the afternoon with Hester Greenway, who was only too glad to entertain them.